Houston We Have A Problem

Orryns POV:

Rousing from my slumber, a subtle rustling pulls me back from the edge of consciousness. Opening my eyes, I'm greeted by the sight of Nadya, her gaze fixated on me. As my gaze meets hers, a splash of crimson quickly paints her cheeks, and her eyes dart away to avoid my direct stare.

'Shes so endearing,' An unsolicited thought tiptoes into my mind, surprising me. Just as promptly, I shake it off. 'Such thoughts are inappropriate.'

My primary concern should be orchestrating the rebellion, nothing else. The time that I am inevitably going to spend around her, coupled with these intrusive thoughts, could spell disaster. I bear the weight of our world's future on my shoulders; I cannot afford to be distracted by any romantic whims. 'Her interest in me stems from gratitude for her rescue, nothing more. I mustn't forget that.'

It's an axiom among warriors that the act of saving someone can create a bond of attachment. Gratitude can often be misinterpreted as love, leading to a maze of misconceptions and heartbreak. Many warriors, trapped in this intricate maze, have fallen for the ones they saved, only to realize too late that their feelings were based on mere confusion.

Throughout my career, I've rescued countless women, their beauty often enchanting, but none have captivated my attention like Nadya. Her silence weaves a fascinating aura around her. It feels as if destiny played its cards to make our paths intersect. The room where I found her wasn't even on my intended path, but a strange magnetism pulled me there. The fury that raged within me upon seeing her situation was unparalleled.

Nadya continues to shy away from my gaze, her embarrassment at being caught studying me in my sleep is palpable. The soft glow of dawn reveals us, still nestled at the desk where we'd fallen asleep. It seems I succumbed to exhaustion while attending to my paperwork.

"I'll fetch you something to eat," I murmur in her ear, my voice a low, soothing hum. Her reaction is immediate, her eyes widening a fraction with an unfamiliar emotion.

The perplexity, writ large on her face, evolves into worry, compelling me to intervene. An instinctual urge compels my hand to reach out, lightly grazing the side of her neck in an attempt to assuage her unease. But my gesture only serves to deepen the rosy blush that has taken residence on her cheeks.

As my hand softly presses against her face, a grim reality hits me hard, the protruding bones beneath her delicate skin are telltale signs of her grave ordeal. The abhorrent circumstances she, and others like her, had endured inside that prison churn my stomach in disgust. The torment they must have faced leaves a vile taste in my mouth.

The haunting gaze from her eyes seems permanently etched with traumas of the past, striking a poignant chord in my soul. It strengthens my resolve to shield her from any further harm. From this day forward, I am committed to ensuring her safety, to guard her from the pain that life might throw her way. I am fully aware of the enormity of this promise and the challenges it brings, but my resolve stands firm, I will try with every ounce of my being to uphold it.

Slowly, she extricates herself from my lap, standing awkwardly nearby. The urge to communicate is evident in her body language, yet words seem to elude her. Her silence worries me, especially since Fleya had mentioned her being quite talkative before her ordeal. The revelation heightens my curiosity about the extent of torment she had faced, reinforcing my resolve to devote the rest of my life to her service.

My gaze studies Nadya, trying to decipher the unspoken words dancing behind her eyes. I contemplate offering her a pen and paper, but the realization that she likely wasn't versed in literacy dissuades me.

Suddenly, her erratic foot shuffling, coupled with a pointed finger towards the divider, clarifies her intentions. As she anxiously nibbles on her lower lip, an action that I've come to recognize as her way to placate her burgeoning nerves, I follow her pointing gesture, and then nod my head in understanding.

"I'll go fetch you some food," I assure her, respecting her need for privacy. Rising from the chair, I'm struck by the contrast in our statures. Her petite form makes me feel like a towering giant beside her. "It should take a few minutes. I won't be gone long," I assure her, leaving her with a promise of a swift return.

As Nadya nods, signalling her understanding, I exit the tent and step into the burgeoning morning light. Despite the early hour, a significant number of people are stirring, their presence a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. A day has passed since their rescue and I have decided to let them have this day to rest, to readjust to the world they've been robbed of for so long.

Witnessing their malnourished bodies and shattered spirits bolsters my resolve to infiltrate other prisons and liberate the incarcerated. Overthrowing the king and reclaiming his lands has always been part of the plan, a clandestine scheme I've nurtured for years. But it wasn't until Fleya's capture that the idea to free the prisoners and enlist them as allies against the king emerged. Who better to rally against the king than the very people whose lives he has recklessly decimated?

Approaching the makeshift kitchen, I call out to the cook, "I need two bowls of food."

Obediently, Hemp responds, "Yes, my lord, right away." He nods his head in deference, the morning light dancing off his bald pate. He's an older man, with years etched in lines across his face, yet there's a quiet strength in his firm stance and measured movements. He stoops over the simmering pot, ladling up the thin porridge with steady hands. His eyes, a tired blue, speak of years of hardship and resilience, reflecting a soul shaped by the crucible of survival.

The menu is intentionally light, in recognition of the fact that the rescued have not had a proper meal in ages. To bombard their systems with heavy foods now would likely do more harm than good. I'm particularly grateful that Fleya wasn't detained long enough to endure the worst of it.

"I'm relieved that the princess returned unscathed," Hemp murmurs, his usually taciturn countenance softening as he hands me the first bowl. His eyes, weathered by time, express a tenderness rarely seen.

Hemp, a man who values solitude and shies from human companionship, reacts differently when it comes to Fleya. As with most people in our clan, he has an inexplicable affection for her, a consequence of her inherent charm. She radiates kindness, her optimism a beacon in our world overshadowed by despair. A nature that mirrors our mother's and acts as a bitter reminder of the ruthless betrayal that led to her cruel demise.

"I share the sentiment," I reply, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of my lips. I cannot claim Fleya returned wholly unscathed. The physical wounds might be absent, but the mental scars...those are far deeper. "Has she visited yet today?"

Hemp nods, his forehead creasing in concern. "First thing this morning. It was odd seeing her rise so early. Before her capture, we'd be fortunate to catch a glimpse of her before lunchtime."

Fleya has never been an early riser. This dates back to her childhood when I would often have to coax her out of bed with the promise of delectable pastries or captivating books. But I can see how the regimented routine in the prison could have altered her sleep patterns, even in the absence of natural sunlight within those dismal caves.

"Will you visit her?" He queries, passing me the last filled bowl.

"No, I've been forbidden until I aid in Nadya's recovery," I scoff at the absurd directive issued by my younger sister. In my bid to protect Fleya from the sight of Nadya's condition and potential illness, I received a command to confine myself to my tent until Nadya regained her health. "Unless I wish to invite Fleya's wrath."

Hemp's face tenses, the lines deepening. "How is she faring?" His voice lowers, sobering. "I must pay my respects once she's well."

"She's... in the process of healing," I respond, words falling short in describing the fragile state that Nadya is in. It's a precarious dance, where one misstep could either break her physically or shatter the delicate thread of trust that's slowly weaving between us. "It's going to require patience and time, but I believe she can bounce back... at least physically."

As though on cue, the air shifts, transforming from calm to turbulent in an instant. The urgent call slices through the early morning serenity like a knife. "Sir," Nikon's voice echoes, imbued with an ominous undertone that sends a shiver down my spine. He's a man of few words, and the urgency in his voice implies that our conversation is about to take an unpleasant turn. "We have a problem."