Chapter 56
Rowan Valebright had fought Demon Beasts.
He had stood against armies, held collapsing lines, made decisions that reshaped borders and histories. He had bled in silence and won in noise.
None of that prepared him for waiting.
He sat in the chair by the window, unmoving, watching the late afternoon light slide slowly across the stone rooftops of Eastrun. His arm still rested in a sling, the shoulder mended enough to function but not enough to forget. The healers had cleared him for light movement.
Light, Rowan had learned, was a very flexible word.
Behind him, the room breathed with quiet domestic sounds—fabric shifting, a drawer closing, the soft clink of ceramic as Lila set something down.
"You're staring again," she said mildly.
"I'm observing," Rowan replied.
She glanced over her shoulder. "You've been observing the same roof for twenty minutes."
"It's a good roof."
Lila smiled, the kind of smile she wore when she was amused but not indulging him.
"Come here," she said.
Rowan stood immediately.
Too immediately.
"Rowan," she warned.
He froze, winced, and sat back down more carefully.
"Yes?"
She walked over, slow and steady, and took his hand.
"Not like you're being summoned to battle," she said. "Like you're visiting your wife."
He exhaled. "Right. Sorry."
She guided him to the bed and sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. The contact grounded him in a way armor never had.
"You're restless," she said.
"Yes."
"You're worried."
"Yes."
"And you think if you keep watch, something terrible won't happen."
Rowan hesitated.
"...Yes."
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Then you and the city have that in common," she said.
Rowan laughed quietly. "That's not comforting."
She tilted her head up to look at him. "It should be. You're not alone in this."
He swallowed.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted.
Lila didn't ask what this meant.
She reached for his hand and guided it gently, deliberately, to rest against her stomach.
He went still.
Not stiff. Not afraid.
Just... reverent.
"I feel ridiculous," he said softly.
"You're allowed," she replied.
He shifted closer, forehead resting against hers, eyes closed.
"I keep thinking I should be doing something," Rowan said. "Training. Planning. Preparing."
"And instead?"
"I'm sitting," he said. "Thinking."
"That sounds like preparing," she said.
He huffed. "I'm very bad at it."
"You're learning," she said. "Slowly."
He smiled faintly.
They sat like that for a long while, listening to the city beyond the walls—distant carts, muted voices, the ordinary rhythm of life continuing despite everything.
Eventually, Rowan whispered, "What if I'm not enough?"
Lila didn't answer right away.
She took a breath.
"Then we'll adjust," she said simply.
Rowan opened his eyes. "That's it?"
"Yes."
He frowned. "No speeches? No reassurance?"
She shook her head. "You don't need reassurance. You need truth."
He waited.
"You don't have to be everything," Lila continued. "You just have to be here."
The words settled in him slowly.
Like something heavy being set down.
Dorian Lionsreach stood on the outer wall, hands resting on the stone, staring into the distance as if daring the horizon to misbehave.
The horizon, wisely, did not.
The chicken stood beside him.
"Don't look at me like that," Dorian muttered. "I'm being responsible."
The chicken clucked.
"Yes, I know this is new," Dorian said. "I'm as uncomfortable as you are."
He glanced back toward the guild.
Rowan wasn't on the walls.
That fact alone felt strange.
"He trusts me," Dorian said quietly.
The chicken did not comment.
"I mean," Dorian continued, "I assume he trusts me. He didn't say it, but he didn't argue when I took over the watch rotation."
The chicken hopped once.
Dorian sighed. "Fine. He probably argued internally."
He straightened, scanning the city again.
"I won't let anything happen," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
The chicken shifted closer.
"...I mean it," Dorian added. "Not on my watch."
The chicken stared out with him, unblinking.
That evening, Rowan attempted to cook.
This was, in hindsight, a mistake.
Lila watched from the doorway as he stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, expression deeply focused as if preparing for combat.
"You don't need to do this," she said.
"I want to," he replied.
"That pot is empty."
"I know."
"And you're stirring it."
"I'm thinking ahead."
She laughed.
He looked over, sheepish. "I used to do this."
"Yes," she said gently. "Years ago. Before you discovered delegating."
He sighed and set the spoon down. "I feel... unnecessary."
She walked over and took the spoon from his hand.
"You feel displaced," she corrected. "That's different."
He nodded slowly.
She pressed the spoon back into his palm.
"Stay," she said. "Help. Just... don't conquer the kitchen."
"No promises."
The stew, when finished, was edible.
That was as much praise as Lila offered, and Rowan accepted it gratefully.
They ate at the small table by the window, the light fading as lanterns kindled across the city.
"You're quiet," Rowan said.
"I'm tired," Lila replied.
"From me worrying?"
"From you worrying loudly," she said, fondly.
He smiled. "I'm working on it."
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
"I know."
Later, as night settled fully, Rowan found himself awake again.
He slipped from the bed quietly and stepped onto the balcony, the cool air brushing his skin.
Eastrun lay calm below.
Too calm.
"You'll wear a groove in the stone," Dorian's voice said from behind him.
Rowan turned.
Dorian leaned against the wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed but eyes alert.
"Couldn't sleep," Rowan said.
Dorian nodded. "Neither can I."
They stood together in companionable silence.
"I almost lost you," Dorian said eventually.
Rowan didn't argue.
"I don't like that feeling," Dorian added.
"Neither do I."
Dorian glanced sideways. "You're doing the right thing."
Rowan exhaled. "I hope so."
"You're terrified," Dorian said.
"Yes."
"That means you care."
Rowan smiled faintly. "I always cared."
"Not like this."
No.
Not like this.
"I won't fight the way I used to," Rowan said quietly.
Dorian nodded. "Good."
Rowan blinked. "That's it?"
Dorian shrugged. "I liked the old way. But I like you alive more."
Rowan laughed softly.
"Get some rest," Dorian said. "I've got the night."
Rowan nodded and returned inside.
Sleep came easier after that.
Not deep. Not perfect.
But enough.
Rowan dreamed—not of battle, not of enemies—but of small things.
Hands. Laughter. A voice calling him home.
He woke before dawn to Lila shifting beside him, one hand resting unconsciously against her stomach.
He watched her breathe.
Listened.
Waited.
For once, he did not feel the need to act.
Only to be present.
Outside, the city stirred.
Inside, the future gathered quietly.
And for the first time since the war had begun again, Rowan Valebright did not feel like the world rested solely on his shoulders.
It rested beside him.
Waiting.