My mother announces herself by knocking and barging in at the same time.
"Fia, darling, we're coming in," she says then immediately comes in without waiting.
My father follows right behind her, carrying something that looks suspiciously like an entire folded armchair under one arm and a basket under the other. There are two maids trailing them like nervous ducklings, overloaded with blankets and boxes.
Behind them, the four women who have basically moved into my room all straighten like a squad caught by their commanding officer.
"Mother," I say.
My voice is still rough, but it comes easily. The Oath and the anchors have taken the edge off the worst of the mana spikes; my head still throbs, my chest still aches when I breathe too deep, but I can talk without it feeling like I'm losing hit points.
She sweeps to my bedside in two long strides, silk skirts whispering, and immediately cups my face between her hands.
"You're too pale," she declares.
I open my mouth to argue and then remember that I no longer have a hovering window to tell me my exact complexion value.
"…Probably," I say.
She squints at me, thumb brushing under one eye, then looks over her shoulder and snaps her fingers.
"Blankets," she says.
The maids jump into motion, even though I'm already under two layers.
My father sets the folding chair down with a soft grunt, eyes scanning me the way a general assesses a battlefield. He has that same look he had when I woke from the coma: anger, fear, and something softer he hides poorly.
"You look better," he says gruffly. "Relatively."
"Progress," I say. "I haven't secretly died again in at least twelve hours."
He tries to scowl. It doesn't quite work.
"Not amusing," he mutters.
My mother turns on the four women like a hawk spotting prey.
"Have you been feeding her enough?" she demands.
Seraphine, who has fought armies without flinching, actually straightens like a kid caught in the pantry.
"Yes, Your Grace," she says. "We've kept to the healers' schedule. Small meals, frequent—"
My mother waves a hand. "Words," she says. "I need visual proof."
She marches to the little table where Mira's carefully written schedule lives, flips through it like she's reading a battle log, then narrows her eyes at the saintess.
"You look tired," she says.
Mira, who has been sleeping in chairs for a week, startles. "I'm fine," she says automatically.
"You are not fine," my mother says. "Sit down before you fall down."
She physically pushes Mira into the nearest chair and then whirls on Elira, who is trying very hard to look like part of the furniture.
"And you," she says. "Have you been letting my daughter stand up unsupervised?"
"No," Elira says immediately. "She tries. We stop her. Mostly."
My mother narrows her eyes.
"Mostly?" she repeats.
"Mother," I cut in. "Please don't interrogate my entire harem."
Elira chokes.
Seraphine makes a sound like she swallowed her own tongue.
Mira turns scarlet to the tips of her ears.
Lyriel stares at the ceiling like she is physically leaving this conversation.
My father coughs into his fist, shoulders shaking once.
My mother blinks.
Then she smiles—slowly, like the sun coming out after a storm.
"At least your sense of humor is intact," she says. "Good. You'll need it."
She returns to my bedside, sits, and immediately starts tucking the blankets in like I'm five and the world hasn't ended six times this week.
I lie still and let her.
It's easier than usual, without system notifications popping up to tell me my movement speed or comfort level. For the first time in a long time, all I have is the physical sensation: the weight of the blankets, the faint scratch of the fabric, the warmth seeping in.
I hadn't realized how much I'd been leaning on numbers instead of…this.
"How do you feel?" my father asks, pulling the folding chair nearer and sitting with a groan. He's not old, but this week has put years on him.
I take stock the old-fashioned way.
My chest: tight, but not stabbing. My head: dull ache, the sharp spikes held back by the anchors. Limbs: heavy, but not leaden. The cold: lingering, but the extra blankets and Mira's earlier warmth spell are taking the edge off.
"Like someone used me as a mana battery and forgot to unplug me," I say. "But better than yesterday."
"Scale of one to ten," Lyriel prompts from the side, already reaching for her notebook.
I think.
"Six," I say. "Five if I don't move."
My mother's jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue. That in itself is an improvement; before, she would have launched into a speech about healers and cures and priests.
Instead, she smooths my hair back from my forehead.
"We brought stew," she announces. "The palace kitchens are doing their best, but I don't trust them to make something you'll actually eat."
"One time," I say, "I spit out a carrot and suddenly I'm untrustworthy."
"You were three," she says. "You made the cook cry."
Elira snorts quietly.
Mira suppresses a smile.
My father opens the basket and the smell hits me—rich, savory, familiar.
Home.
My stomach does a little hopeful flip. For days, eating has been a chore; everything tasted like dust on pain. Now, with the spikes blunted and the system shut up, I actually feel…interested.
"Oh," I say. "That smells unfair."
My mother claps her hands.
"Everyone out," she says briskly. "Family only."
There's a beat of silence.
Seraphine opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her eyes flick to me.
I could tell my mother no.
Technically, as the walking calamity and whatever passes for a chosen one, I outrank her in some metaphysical way.
But.
I look at Seraphine, at the faint bruises under her eyes, the way her shoulders sag now that the constant low-level fight against the system's nudges is gone.
Then at Mira, whose hands tremble slightly now that they're not being forced to channel until she drops.
At Elira, whose sword is probably a comfort more than a necessity in this room.
At Lyriel, who's holding herself upright more through spite than sleep.
"Stay," I say.
Four heads turn toward me.
I look at my mother.
"Please," I add. "They're family too."
She studies me for a moment.
Then she exhales.
"Of course," she says softly. "Then everyone sit. We're doing this properly."
The maids set up a little tray across my lap; my father ladles stew into a bowl. My mother takes the spoon.
I reach for it.
She swats my wrist lightly.
"Absolutely not," she says. "You almost died. Twice. You're getting fed."
Normally I'd protest.
Normally I'd roll my eyes and insist I'm not that fragile, no matter what my medical charts say.
Today, my arms feel heavy and my head still throbs and, more importantly, I can see the way her fingers tremble around the spoon.
So I don't fight it.
"All right," I say. "Convince me it's not poisoned."
She huffs. "You're not that important," she says. "If I were going to poison anyone it'd be your father. Say 'ah.'"
My father snorts.
I open my mouth obediently.
The stew is hot and hearty, potatoes soft, meat tender, the broth thick with herbs and time. It tastes like childhood winters by the fire, stories read while snow fell outside, the faint smell of woodsmoke.
I swallow.
"It's good," I say.
"Of course it is," my mother says smugly. "Again."
She feeds me slowly, in between questions.
"How often have the headaches been?""Are you still feeling cold?""Any more…episodes?"
I answer as honestly as I can without numbers to lean on.
"Less frequent," I say. "Still cold in the mornings. No comas since the last one. Mana spikes are…manageable. We're sharing them."
My father's gaze flicks to the faint glow at my wrist, then to the matching marks on the others.
"And you're all…certain," he says, voice carefully neutral, "about this sharing arrangement?"
"Yes," Seraphine says, no hesitation at all.
"Absolutely," Mira says.
Elira grins, sharp. "If she's a walking bomb, we're the blast shields," she says. "We're in."
Lyriel just nods once. "It's a better design than letting her body do all the work," she says. "And it was her wish, whether she admits it or not."
My father's mouth twitches. "Stubborn," he says.
"Inherited," I mutter.
My mother flicks my forehead gently.
"Don't sass when you're being fed," she scolds.
I smile.
It feels…strange, in a good way. Less like a defense mechanism, more like an actual expression.
Before, there was always that lurking awareness that somewhere, just out of sight, the system was taking notes. "Fia smiles: flag increase. Party affection: +1. Future tragedy: more satisfying."
Now, the smile goes nowhere but into the room.
It lands on my parents, who visibly relax each time I do it.
On Mira, who keeps wiping her eyes when she thinks I'm not looking.
On Elira, who grins back like she's relieved it's not pained.
On Lyriel, whose shoulders unclench a fraction every time I answer without gasping.
On Seraphine, who watches me like she's memorizing my face in case reality tries to snatch it away.
The day passes in a kind of soft, relentless fussing.
My mother decides my hair is "tragic" and sets about re-braiding it, scolding me for letting it tangle.
"You've been in a coma," I protest. "Kind of hard to keep up a brushing routine when I'm busy negotiating with cosmic processes."
"Excuses," she says, fingers gentle as they move through my hair. "You used to come to me every night with a brush. Do it again when you're better."
The words land with surprising force.
When you're better.
Not if.
I swallow.
"Okay," I say quietly. "I'll…do that."
My father assembles the armchair he brought and parks himself near the window, half-turned so he can watch both the courtyard and me. He pretends to read a report; his eyes keep drifting back.
Every time I adjust, he glances up.
"You uncomfortable?" he asks.
"A little," I say once.
He rises immediately, adjusting pillows, pulling the tray, moving the blankets like he's rearranging troop formations.
My mother shoos him away after a while. "You're going to smother her," she says. "Sit down. Tell her something that isn't about troop movements."
He grunts, then settles back in his chair.
After a long pause, he says, "Your cousin's boy tried to ride a goat last week."
I blink. "…What?"
"He says he was training a mount for when he awakens," my father says, expression carefully blank. "The goat disagreed. They are both fine. Your cousin is not."
I start laughing and immediately regret it as my chest pulls.
"Ow," I wheeze. "Ow, don't—my ribs—"
Mira's hand is on my chest in an instant, warmth spreading, muttered prayers cushioning the worst of the strain.
"Gently," she says. "Shallow breaths. Don't try to match Elira's cackling."
Elira is indeed doubled over, hand over her mouth.
"A goat," she gasps. "As a war mount. I've seen worse plans."
Lyriel sighs. "This family," she mutters.
My mother finishes the braid and ties it off with a ribbon.
"There," she says, satisfied. "Presentable. Unlike some people who try to sneak out to battle in whatever they were sleeping in."
Everyone looks at me.
I raise my free hand weakly.
"In my defense," I say, "I was expecting to die. Fashion wasn't a priority."
"And now it won't be," my father says firmly. "Because you promised."
I freeze.
He knows.
Of course he knows. The Oath burned bright enough that half the palace must have felt it.
"Yes," I say softly. "I promised."
My mother's hands pause on my shoulders.
"I heard the wording," she says quietly. "Even if the capital falls."
There's an undercurrent there—fear, pride, grief.
I nod, eyes on the blanket.
"I meant it," I say. "I mean it."
She leans forward, arms sliding around me, careful but firm.
When I was a child, her hugs felt huge, all-encompassing. Now, I'm taller, frailer, but the feeling is the same: enveloping, grounding.
"I am angry," she murmurs into my hair. "Not at you. At whoever thought it acceptable to put you in a position where you felt you had to say something like that."
"I'm the one who burned a battlefield," I say.
"Yes," she says. "And you did it to protect your people. I will never be angry at you for that."
She pulls back enough to look me in the eyes.
"I will, however, be furious if you ever think you are worth less than a building or a crown," she says. "Do you understand?"
I nod, throat tight.
"I'm…learning," I manage.
"Good," she says. "Your four menaces seem to be doing a decent job hammering it into you."
"Hey," Elira protests. "We're very responsible menaces."
"Mostly," Lyriel adds dryly.
"Always," Mira says meekly.
Seraphine just smiles, eyes bright.
The day stretches into a gentle blur.
My mother insists on brushing out my hair a second time "to smooth the braid." She also insists on re-tucking the blankets every time I so much as shift.
My father tells more stories, alternately terrible and hilarious—noble gossip sanitized just enough, small accidents in training grounds, the time a duke's hunting dog ran through court with the queen's wig in its jaws.
At some point, my mother produces knitting from nowhere and starts making me new socks "because your feet are always cold." She periodically abandons the socks to adjust my pillow, offer me water, or dab my forehead like I'm running a fever, even though I'm not.
I just…let it happen.
Smiling feels less like an act and more like…breathing.
There are still flares short, sharp stabs behind my eyes when my core misbehaves. Each time, the anchors light; my four partners flinch in varying degrees and then settle. Lyriel scribbles, Seraphine squeezes my hand, Elira mutters something rude under her breath, Mira channels another trickle of warmth and relief.
My parents notice every time.
They go very still, eyes tracking the way I press my lips together, the way my knuckles whiten on the blanket.
They don't pepper me with questions or panic.
They just…stay.
Once, during a longer spike, my father reaches across and lays his hand over my mother's.
She grips it back hard enough to hurt.
I see it now, how they're holding themselves together. How easily they could be screaming instead.
The old me the pre-war, pre-system me—would have tried to joke it off for their sake. Turn everything into a bit, minimize, tell them it's fine.
The system-era me would have seen their fear as another variable in a larger equation and tried to optimize for minimizing it, even at my own expense.
Now, with both scripts gone, I'm left with something simpler.
I hurt.
They hate that.
They love me.
I love them.
I can't fix everything.
I can let them be here.
So I do.
When my mother fusses, I smile.
When my father tells a story that goes nowhere, I smile.
When Seraphine gently massages my cold hands under the blankets while my mother pretends not to notice, I smile.
When Elira and my father end up arguing about the "correct" way to swing a greatsword and my mother and Lyriel share an identical exasperated expression, I smile.
When Mira falls asleep in the armchair again, head lolling, rosary slipping from her fingers, my mother immediately gets up to tuck a blanket around her this time.
"She's given as much as any of us," she murmurs. "Let her rest."
My smile then is small and wobbly and hurts my cheeks in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
The sun moves across the sky, painting the room in warm gold, then softer orange.
At some point, Princess Elenora bursts in, declares that this is "babying big sister day," climbs onto the bed, and insists on "helping," which mostly involves handing me grapes one by one with the solemnity of a priest feeding communion.
My mother manages to look both scandalized and delighted.
"We are not feeding her like a hatchling," she says.
"But she's so small and breakable," Elenora says gravely, patting my arm. "We have to be gentle."
"I'm right here," I point out.
They ignore me.
It should be suffocating.
It isn't.
For the first time in a long time, I let myself be the center of all this ridiculous, overbearing, overprotective affection without squirming.
I'm not sure when I drift off.
One moment, my mother is adjusting my braid again, my father is telling Seraphine something about supply lines, Elira is scratching Sir Fluffsalot's ear like he's a real guard dog, Mira is dozing, Lyriel is sketching runes in the air, Elenora is curled at my side like a small warm cat.
The next, my eyes are heavy.
"Sleep," my mother murmurs, noticing immediately. "We'll be here."
"You always say that," I mumble.
"And we're always right," my father says.
I smile.
There's no popup telling me "Sleep quality +10" or "Party affection increased."
Just the steady sound of people breathing.
My family by blood and by choice orbiting my bed like stubborn little moons.
The pain is there. The illness is there. The uncertainty is bigger than ever without a system whispering predictions in my ear.
But as I drift into sleep, warm under too many blankets, hair neatly braided, stomach full of stew, head on a pillow that smells faintly of home and mana and worry and love, one thought settles, clear and quiet:
Even if the world is unknowable now.
Even if tomorrow drops something worse on us.
Right now, I am here.
They are here.
And for today, being babied isn't something to fight.
It's a gift.
So I just smile.
And let them fuss over me until dreams pull me under.