Doesn't Matter Who She is

The following morning, Arlan awoke with Oriana nestled in his embrace, her breathing steady but undeniably unconscious. Although her face bore the faint remnants of last night's skirmish, he had meticulously cleansed her and replaced her blood-stained attire, remnants of their encounter with that evil witch, Edna.

Gently, he checked her pulse, relieved to find it steady yet noticeably weaker. 'Her recovery will require time,' he thought, concern etching his features.

His gaze tenderly traced the contours of her face, memories flooding back of the anguish in her eyes when he had made the difficult decision to depart. Those tear-filled eyes of hers had silently accused him of betrayal, their depth reflecting a wounded trust.