The first time I walk to the end of the corridor without help, everyone pretends not to watch me.
They're terrible at it.
There are guards on "normal rotation" who just happen to be posted every ten paces. Two maids dusting the same stretch of wall for the third time. A steward carrying an empty tray back and forth like he's lost. Elira "leaning" against a column in full armor. Mira following three steps behind "in case you get dizzy." Lyriel "coincidentally" walking in the opposite direction with a stack of papers and zero intention of going anywhere but my side if I sway.
Seraphine is the only one who doesn't bother hiding it. She's right beside me, hand hovering at my elbow, not touching, but close enough that one misstep will put my weight on her immediately.
My legs feel…strange.
Not strong, exactly. There's still a heaviness in them, a fatigue in the muscles like I ran a long way yesterday and didn't stretch. But they're mine again. Obedient, mostly. Capable of more than the shuffle from bed to couch to bed.
No courtesy of the system this time. No little stamina bar creeping up. Just the raw, animal knowledge of my own body: the burn in my thighs, the pull in my calves, the way my lungs expand and complain but don't outright revolt.
It feels honest.
It feels dangerous.
"You're overthinking every step," Seraphine murmurs. "Breathe."
"Hard not to overthink when my own legs have tried to assassinate me before," I mutter.
She huffs a laugh. "If they try again, I'll arrest them."
"On what charge?" I ask. "Treason?"
"High," she says. "Attempted regicide of my personal queen."
Heat flares under my ribs that has nothing to do with fever.
"Flatterer," I say, but my mouth curves.
We reach the end of the corridor. A tall window, morning light spilling in, dust drifting like lazy snow. Outside, the courtyard is alive with movement: soldiers drilling, servants crossing, a dog chasing a boy who's probably not supposed to be out here.
I press one hand to the stone sill.
It's cold. Real cold, not the bone-deep, unnatural frost of mana misbehavior. The kind of chill that belongs to late autumn, to frost on grass, to breath hanging on the air.
I close my eyes and just stand there.
A month ago, the walk from bed to window was enough to leave me shaking, heart pounding like a war drum. A week ago, I couldn't stand this long without someone's magic propping me up. Two days ago, there was serious debate about whether I should be allowed to leave the room at all.
Now my pulse is up. My breath is a little tight. But I'm upright.
Without spells.
Without rails.
My body, traitorous, broken, still doing the thing it was built to do: move.
"You're smiling," Mira says quietly behind me.
I hadn't realized.
I open my eyes and find my reflection faint in the glass: pale, thinner, dark circles still bruised under my eyes—but there's color in my cheeks. There's life behind my irises instead of that washed-out, glassy look I saw too often.
"Huh," I say. "Guess I am."
"You look smug," Elira calls.
"You look like you're about to cry," Lyriel counters, not unkindly.
"I look like I did something hard and didn't explode," I say. "Let me have this."
Seraphine nudges my shoulder with hers. "You do look better," she says. "Stronger."
"Relatively," I say. "Let's not get ambitious. I walked a hallway, not ran a marathon."
"Progress is still progress," Mira murmurs.
She's right.
The healers say my lungs sound clearer. That my heart, while still scarred, beats more steadily. That my body is adjusting to the anchor lattice we carved into the world, distributing the worst of the mana turbulence before it can chew me apart.
They don't say "cured." They never will.
But they say "better" now without flinching.
It's a nice word.
I savor it.
Then the tickle starts.
Small, at first. A little scratch at the back of my throat, easily mistaken for dry air or a stray crumb.
I swallow.
It doesn't go away.
The scratch deepens—barbed, familiar, the ghost of a feeling I've been trying not to remember. Heat crawls up my windpipe. My chest spasms once.
No.
Not now.
Not today.
"Fia?" Mira's voice. Too alert.
I lift a hand. "Fine," I say. "Wrong breath. Give me a second."
My body disagrees.
The second cough rips through me like a jerk on a chain.
It's not huge. Not dramatic. A single, sharp convulsion that makes my chest seize and my ribs complain.
But the taste hits my tongue instantly.
Metallic.
Hot.
Old.
I stare at the window, at my own reflection.
My lips are wet.
The color is wrong.
I press two fingers to the corner of my mouth. Pull them back.
Red.
Not rusted brown, not thin pink. Bright.
Alive.
The corridor narrows.
Behind me, Mira gasps.
"Fia," she whispers. "You're"
"I know," I say.
The third cough comes with no warning at all.
My whole torso contracts. Pain flares in my chest—not the deep, strangling agony of a heart trying to stop, but something sharper, localized. Like a seam tearing.
I bend with it.
This time, the sound is wet.
Warmth spills over my tongue, into my cupped hand. It splatters the flagstones at my feet in a dark, obscene blot.
The world goes so quiet I can hear the drip.
One.
Two.
Three.
The guards at the far end stiffen like they want to run but are terrified of making it worse.
Mira is there before the cough finishes, hands on my shoulders, eyes huge and already shining with tears.
"Sit," she says, voice high with panic. "We need to—Seraphine, the stool, get—"
I straighten slowly.
My legs hold.
My head spins, just a little. That's all.
I raise the bloody hand and stare at my palm.
There's not…that much.
A smear, a splash. Enough to be alarming. Not enough to be catastrophic.
I know this, rationally.
I also remember the first time it happened. Back when the system was still whispering in my ear. When a single fleck of red on my handkerchief came with a neat diagnosis and an ugly timer I could never see in full.
Back then, it felt like the beginning of the end.
"Fia." Seraphine's voice, low and very controlled. "Look at me."
I drag my gaze up.
Her face is carved from something hard. Her eyes are soft in the worst way: full of fear she's not letting turn into panic yet.
"Are you dizzy?" she asks. "Short of breath? Any chest pressure?"
"Chest hurts," I say. "More like…something snapped. Not…crushing."
"That's worse," Elira mutters.
Lyriel is already moving, sigils springing to life around her hands on instinct.
"Don't," I rasp.
They all freeze.
"Not here," I say. My voice sounds shredded. "Not…in the corridor. I'm not collapsing in the hallway like some tragic drama heroine. Help me back to the bed and then you can panic."
Mira makes a small, wounded sound.
"That's not funny," she says.
"I'm not joking," I say.
Seraphine hesitates for half a heartbeat.
Then she steps closer, slipping an arm around my waist.
"Can you walk?" she asks.
I test my legs.
Still holding. Still mine. The ground feels a little softer than it should, but not hostile.
"I think so," I say.
"Then we walk," she says. "Slowly. Elira, clear the way. Lyriel, no major spells until we get her horizontal. Mira—"
"I'm here," Mira whispers. Her hand finds mine, careful to avoid the blood. "Just breathe with me, okay?"
We move.
The corridor stretches like a bad dream: too long, too bright, every face watching with wide, horrified eyes as I pass with red smeared on my palm and dots trailing in my wake.
I don't feel like a heroine.
I feel like a walking omen.
A reminder that no matter how much better the healers say I am, something inside me is still cracked enough to leak.
By the time we reach my room, my head is buzzing. Not spinning, just…overfull. My chest aches with every breath.
Mira's fingers tremble around mine.
Elira's jaw is clenched so tightly I can hear her teeth grind.
Lyriel's eyes are distant and furious. Her mouth moves, counting breaths, heartbeats, something.
Seraphine's arm stays stiff and solid around my waist, her body between me and the world.
They get me into bed.
The moment I'm horizontal, the panic they've been holding back rushes in.
Mira dives for a cloth, wiping my mouth, her hands careful but frantic.
"Spit," she says. "Don't swallow anything you haven't already. Please."
I obey.
More red.
Less now. Streaked with spit, diluted. Not endless.
Lyriel starts barking orders at the healers before they even arrive.
"Warm water. No ice. Towels. Basins. I want her lungs listened to before anyone even thinks of a bloodletting. And no one says 'it's just your illness' or I will set you on fire."
She means it.
Seraphine stands at the foot of the bed, breathing like she's been hit. Her hands flex at her sides, empty.
Elira paces the length of the room like a caged animal, hand on her sword hilt, as if she could kill whatever inside me thought this was a good time to spring a leak.
I lie there and stare at the ceiling.
Without the system, there's no red flashing warning. No tooltip explaining which part of my anatomy is failing to cooperate.
It's just me and the taste of iron and the memory.
Of dry coughs that turned wet.
Of white handkerchiefs stained rust.
Of doctors saying "terminal" in soft voices, like if they whispered it, it would hurt less.
Something inside me goes cold and very, very still.
The healers arrive. They prod. They listen. They mutter.
Mira hovers at my side, ready to shove them aside if they press too hard.
Lyriel watches every movement like she's grading them.
Seraphine keeps her distance, not because she doesn't care, but because if someone says the wrong thing she might punch them.
Elira eventually plants herself in the doorway, blocking access. No gawkers. No courtiers with morbid curiosity. Just the people whose hearts are wrapped up in mine.
An older healer the one who's been the most honest with me—leans over at last.
Her hands are steady. Her eyes are not cruel.
"Breathe in," she says.
I do.
Sharp. Sore. But the air goes in.
"Out."
I obey.
She nods slowly.
"How bad?" I ask.
She hesitates, just for a second.
Then, to her credit, she doesn't answer in platitudes.
"You're stronger than you were," she says. "Your lungs…sound clearer. The scarring is still there, but there's more give. Your heart is steadier."
I stare at her.
"Then why," I say, "am I bleeding?"
Her mouth tightens.
"Because getting stronger doesn't mean unbreaking what's already cracked," she says quietly. "Sometimes it means putting more weight on it."
She gestures, as if drawing something in the air.
"Think of it like…scar tissue," she says. "You've been resting. Healing. The anchors are helping your body redistribute strain. So when you started walking more, breathing deeper, your lungs stretched further than they have in months."
She looks at the red-streaked cloth in Mira's hand.
"Sometimes, when stiff tissue is forced to move again, it tears," she says. "Not catastrophically. Not always. But enough to bleed."
"So this is…physical therapy," I say. "With a blood garnish."
Mira flinches.
The healer gives me the look older women give children who make jokes to avoid crying.
"Your health is better," she says. "That is true. Your risk is…different. Not gone."
She glances at Mira, at Lyriel, at Seraphine, at Elira.
"And you," she says, voice sharpening, "will need to understand that 'better' does not mean 'safe.' She can do more than before. She cannot do everything. Pushing her like a normal recovery patient would be cruelty. Sheltering her so much she never moves again would be another kind of cruelty."
Lyriel's jaw ticks.
"What's the line?" she asks. "Between those?"
The healer smiles grimly.
"If I knew that," she says, "I'd be a goddess."
Silence settles.
Mira grips the cloth tighter, knuckles white.
"So what do we do?" Mira whispers.
The healer lays a hand gently over my heart.
"You watch," she says. "You listen. You let her test the edges slowly. You accept that sometimes, it will look like this." She nods to the bowl. "And you don't let every drop of blood convince you she's dying."
Her eyes meet mine.
"And you," she says, "have to decide if you want that. A life where better will always mean 'on a knife's edge.' Where walking a corridor might cost you a mouthful of red. Where there are no guarantees, only…chances."
Her voice is matter-of-fact, not unkind.
"You could choose less," she says. "Stay in bed. Move less. Hurt less, most days. Maybe last longer. Maybe not. Or you can keep pushing, slowly, carefully, knowing that every inch you reclaim from this illness will have a price. There is no painless way forward from where you are."
She straightens.
"I won't lie to you," she says. "Not anymore. The system may be gone, but the truth remains: this disease will likely kill you young. We might push that line. We might not. But you are not…in a miracle story now. You are in a hard one."
Dark.
Honest.
My chest tightens not from the tear, not from the blood, but from the weight of it.
Before, the system tried to kill me fast, clean, with big dramatic gestures.
Now, the world offers me a slower blade.
A grind.
A long slope with no visible end.
Live on a knife's edge. Or shrink yourself to avoid the cut.
I look at the bowl. At the red.
At Mira's shaking hands.
At Seraphine's clenched jaw.
At Elira's white-knuckled grip on her sword hilt.
At Lyriel's furious, helpless eyes.
I think of the corridor. Of the feel of walking on my own. Of the sky through the window. Of the dog chasing the boy.
"Of course I want it," I say.
My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
The healer raises a brow.
"A life where moving might make you bleed?" she asks softly.
"A life," I say. "Full stop. If the only way I get to be part of my own story is by…accepting that it's ugly and painful and unfair, then yes. I want that."
Mira lets out a broken little sound that might be a laugh.
Seraphine exhales, some of the tension bleeding from her shoulders.
Elira stops pacing.
Lyriel closes her eyes for a second, then opens them again, steady.
"Then we adjust," she says. "No more pretending 'better' means 'done.' We'll draw the line together. And if we cross it, we learn, not…agonize forever."
The healer nods.
"Good," she says. "Then we'll treat this bleed as what it is: a warning, not a verdict."
She leaves behind tinctures, spells, a long list of "do this, not that," and a silence full of things none of us really know how to say.
Later, when the daylight has gone soft and the worst of the ache in my chest has faded to background, I sit propped against pillows, a cup of tea cooling in my hands.
There's a bowl on the side table.
The cloth in it is no longer bright.
The red has dried to brown.
Ugly.
Real.
Seraphine sits by the window, armor off, shirt sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her head is tipped back against the wall, eyes on the fading sky.
"You're thinking loud," I say.
She snorts. "You spit blood on the floor," she says. "Forgive me if that moment stuck."
"Mira cleaned it," I say. "It's gone."
"That's not how that works," she says quietly.
I know what she means.
Blood leaves ghosts.
Not ones you can ward off with salt or sage.
On linens. On stone. In memory.
The first time you see someone you love cough up red, it brands you. You never quite unsee it.
I stare into my tea.
"Did you think we were back there?" I ask softly. "Before the anchors. Before the Oath. Before…all this. When it was just the system and me and a lot of lies."
"Yes," she says. No hesitation. "For a moment, when you bent over and I heard that sound, I was…back in that tent after the first battle. Watching you turn the handkerchief over like maybe you'd mis-seen the color."
I remember.
The sick, cold knowledge.
The system's neat little box: Terminal Arterial Necrosis — progression inevitable.
I grip the cup a little harder.
"Today was…different," I say. "It still sucks. It still scares me. But it came without a script attached. Just…me and my stupid lungs trying to remember how to work."
"And still bleeding when they get it wrong," she says.
"Yeah," I say.
We sit with that.
For a long time.
Darkness creeps over the courtyard. Lanterns flicker to life. Somewhere, a bell tolls the hour.
The room feels…smaller at night. Closer. Honest.
"Do you ever…resent it?" I ask suddenly.
Seraphine turns her head.
"The illness?" she says.
"The…knife's edge," I say. "That your life is tied to someone who might not get to live a long, boring, dignified existence. That every happiness we find comes with an undertow."
Her mouth curves, but it's not a smile.
"All the time," she says.
The honesty hits harder than a lie would have.
"It makes me angry," she goes on. "That when I picture our future, I have to imagine…endpoints. Silences. Rooms that feel too big. It makes me want to break things. It makes me hate a world that thought that was a fair trade for letting you exist at all."
She looks at me, eyes dark.
"It doesn't make me want you less," she says. "But yes. There is a part of me that will probably always be furious that loving you means learning how to live with the possibility that you might die before I'm ready to let go."
I swallow.
"That's…a lot," I say.
She nods.
"It is," she says. "That's what 'mature' love looks like, I think. The kind that sees the blood on the floor and doesn't…pretend it isn't there."
She shifts, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.
Her fingers trace the back of my hand, light.
"You say you want this life," she says. "Knife's edge and all. I believe you. I want it too. But we have to be clear eyed about what it is. There will be good days like this morning. There will be bad ones like this afternoon. There will be worse ones than either. We can't make it neat."
"I don't want neat," I say.
No system.
No genre.
No guarantees.
Just a jagged line forward.
One step.
Another.
Some of them leaving stains.
She leans in, rests her forehead against mine.
"We will keep walking that corridor with you," she whispers. "Even when it ends in blood. Even when it terrifies us. We'll be the ones carrying basins and cloths and stupid jokes."
"Great," I say, voice a little thick. "I'll be the one ruining the carpets."
She laughs, quietly.
"In the morning," she says, "we'll try again. Maybe not as far. Maybe a different hallway. You are not going back to bed exile because your lungs protested once."
"You heard the healer," I say. "No painless path."
She nods.
"So we pick the one that gives you the most sky," she says.
Mature.
Dark.
No illusions.
I look at the bowl again.
At the dried brown cloth.
At my own thin, scarred hands.
At the red marks on Seraphine's wrist where the anchor sigil lies under her skin, faintly warm against my fingers.
My health is better.
My risk is sharper.
The story is crueler in some ways without the system to distract from the raw biology of it.
But it's mine.
"Okay," I say.
It's a small word.
It holds more than any interface prompt ever did.
Okay, I will walk again and accept that sometimes my lungs will bleed for it.
Okay, I will let them see me when that happens instead of hiding it in a handkerchief.
Okay, I will take a better, shorter, messier life over a long, safe, invisible one.
Tomorrow, there might be more blood.
There will definitely be more fear.
There will also, if I have anything to say about it, be more corridors. More windows. More stupid goats trying to become war mounts. More stew. More being babied and rolling my eyes and secretly loving it.
Dark doesn't mean hopeless.
Mature doesn't mean done.
I squeeze Seraphine's hand.
Her grip tightens.
Outside, the night settles over the capital.
Inside, in a room that smells like herbs and iron and too many blankets, a girl with a failing body and a better heartbeat than she had last month stares down a stained cloth and chooses, again, to live with it.
Not neatly.
Not clean.
But fully.
Even if it costs blood.