Elara woke to silk sheets and panic.
She bolted upright, divine light flaring instinctively around her hands before her sleep-addled mind caught up with her eyes. Not a bandit camp. Not a dungeon. A bedroom—an absurdly luxurious one, with evening light streaming through tall windows and furniture that probably cost more than the entire orphanage where she'd grown up.
The Valcrest estate. She was in Damien Valcrest's home.
Alone.
Her heart hammered as she took inventory. Her robes had been cleaned and mended, though she was still wearing them—thank the Goddess. No signs of... she checked carefully, relief flooding through her when everything seemed intact and undisturbed. She'd simply been put to bed like an exhausted guest.
Which was almost more confusing than the alternatives she'd feared.
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Miss Elara?" A woman's voice, elderly and kind. "I heard you moving. May I enter?"
"Yes," Elara called, hastily smoothing her hair and trying to look like she hadn't just woken up ready to smite someone.
The door opened to reveal a gray-haired woman in a housekeeper's uniform, carrying a tray with tea and small sandwiches. Her expression was warm, grandmotherly—the kind of face that had soothed Elara through countless childhood nightmares at the Church orphanage.
"There now, you gave us quite a scare, sleeping through the entire afternoon." The woman set the tray on a side table. "I'm Margaret, head housekeeper. Young Master Damien asked me to look after you."
"Young Master..." Elara tested the formal address, remembering the man who'd caught her when she fell. Dark hair, sharp features, that careful smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Where is he?"
"In his study, writing to the Church on your behalf. He's been quite concerned." Margaret poured tea with practiced efficiency. "You should eat something, dear. Divine magic takes a toll when overused."
The concern seemed genuine, which only confused Elara further. She'd been taught that nobles—especially powerful ones like the Valcrests—viewed the Church with barely concealed contempt. Political rivals competing for influence over the common people. Yet Damien had saved her, brought her to his home, and was now contacting the Church to ensure her safety?
It didn't fit the warnings she'd received.
"What time is it?" Elara asked, accepting a cup of tea.
"Nearly evening. You slept about six hours." Margaret's eyes crinkled kindly. "The young master said to let you rest as long as needed. The Church has been notified—a rider left two hours ago. They should send an escort by morning."
Morning. She'd be here overnight.
The realization sent a flutter of something through her chest—not quite fear, but close. She was alone in a noble's manor, without supervision, without her usual guards and chaperones. The Church would be scandalized. There would be questions, suspicions, lectures about propriety...
"You look troubled, dear." Margaret's voice was gentle.
"I'm just... this is highly irregular." Elara sipped her tea to buy time. "Being here without a proper escort. The Church has rules about—"
"About young women being alone with men?" Margaret's tone held a hint of dry amusement. "I suspect the Goddess understands emergency circumstances. Better here and safe than proper and dead, hm?"
The practical logic was undeniable, even if it did nothing to calm the anxiety churning in Elara's stomach.
A second knock, this one firmer. "Margaret? Is she awake?"
Damien's voice. Elara's hands tightened on her teacup.
"She is, young master. Come in if you like."
The door opened and Damien entered, still dressed in the riding clothes from earlier but with his coat removed and sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked tired, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that made him seem younger, less formally intimidating.
"Elara." He nodded politely, keeping his distance near the doorway. "I'm glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"
"Better. Thank you." She set down her teacup carefully. "And thank you for... for everything. The rescue, the shelter, contacting the Church. I'm deeply in your debt."
"No debt necessary. Anyone would have—"
"No." She interrupted him, surprising herself with her firmness. "Not anyone. Most nobles would have seen an opportunity for leverage, for political gain. You just... helped."
He studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. "Maybe I'm simply a better actor than most nobles."
The honesty was jarring. Elara had expected protestations of pure motives, not admission of potential deception.
"Are you?" she asked. "Acting?"
"Aren't we all?" He leaned against the doorframe, casual in a way that should have been disrespectful but somehow wasn't. "You wear the mask of the Saintess. I wear the mask of the Noble Son. The question is whether anything real exists underneath."
[CORRUPTION OPPORTUNITY: Philosophical Honesty - Intimacy +3]
[Subject responding to genuine conversation. Sheltered targets crave authenticity.]
[Recommendation: Continue honest dialogue while subtly undermining her worldview]
Margaret cleared her throat. "I'll leave you two to talk. The young master will behave as a gentleman, or answer to me." The last part was directed at Damien with grandmotherly warning.
"Yes, ma'am," Damien said meekly.
Margaret left, pulling the door mostly closed but not latched—propriety maintained by the thinnest margin. Elara found herself alone with Damien for the first time, evening light casting long shadows across the room.
"May I sit?" he asked, gesturing to a chair near the window.
She nodded, and he settled into it with easy grace. Not too close, not presumptuous, but close enough for comfortable conversation. Every movement seemed calculated for minimum threat.
"So," Damien said. "The Saintess and the Suspicious Noble. This is where I'm supposed to make ominous political demands, isn't it?"
Despite herself, Elara laughed. "Is that what you think I'm expecting?"
"Isn't it? You're trapped in my home overnight. I have leverage. The scandal alone could damage the Church's reputation if rumors spread about the Saintess staying unchaperoned with a bachelor noble." He ticked off points on his fingers like he was reading from a script. "I should be demanding favors, political concessions, maybe even suggesting a... closer relationship for mutual benefit."
The last part made her blush, but his tone was more sardonic than suggestive.
"But you're not going to," she said slowly.
"No." He met her eyes directly. "Because that would be predictable, and predictable people are boring. Besides, I don't need political leverage. My father has enough of that."
"Then what do you want?"