Chapter 24 - Goodnight, My Sentinel
Neia glanced at the window, where the curtain had slipped just enough to let in the evening's quiet breath. The light outside had gone soft and purple, the kind that makes city edges blur into memory. She hadn’t realized how late it had gotten.
"I should be going," she said gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked toward the door.
Gideon stirred beside her, rising to his feet with that instinctive protectiveness she was learning to find endearing. "I’ll walk you home," he offered, already reaching for the dishes on the table. But the moment he straightened, he stiffened. A sharp inhale, a wince, then his hand clutched his abdomen, fingers curling tightly over the fabric of his shirt. His jaw clenched. He tried to shake it off.
"Are you alright?" Her voice caught in her throat as she stood too, half-reaching toward him.
"It’s probably just a bruise from the festival," he said, forcing a smile, though it lacked conviction. "Nothing serious. I just need to rest."
He reached again for the plates, only for his arms to falter. He placed them down quickly, more out of necessity than grace, and this time the pain folded him forward. His breath hitched as he gripped the edge of the table.
"That’s it. Lie down," Neia said, already clearing a chair with a decisive sweep of her hand. Her tone had shifted. Not sharp, but firm. The sort of voice one did not argue with. "On the couch. Now."
"I’m fine," Gideon protested, weakly. "This is normal, really. When you work for the Guild, you get used to this sort of—"
"Do I look like I care?" she interrupted, frowning at him in a way that reminded her, fleetingly, of how she used to scold Barnaby whenever he does the complete opposite of what Neia tells him to do. "Lie down, Gideon."
Something in her expression made him blink. Then, like a soldier caught by instinct, he murmured, "Yes, ma’am," and obeyed.
She watched, exasperated but faintly amused, as he awkwardly made his way to the couch and lowered himself onto it like a scolded hound. He even looked vaguely guilty.
"You remind me of my dog when he knows he’s done something wrong," she muttered, half under her breath.
Gideon turned his head, clearly having heard. He looked like he wanted to defend his honour but couldn’t quite find the words. She dragged the chair over beside him and sat, her knees just brushing the edge of the cushions. Her voice was gentler now. "Tell me where it hurts."
He hesitated.
"Be honest."
"My abdomen, mostly. Feels like someone punched me with a warhammer." He winced again. "Back hurts too. But that’s manageable."
"Lift your shirt."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said, lift your shirt so I can see the damage." Her tone was too casual to be teasing, but there was something warm behind it.
His eyes widened slightly. His face was turning red. "Is this really necessary?"
"You’ve been treated by a healer before, haven’t you?"
"Yea, but you’re not exactly just another healer…"
Before he could finish the sentence, Neia had already leaned forward, brushed aside his arm, and tugged the hem of his shirt upward with practiced ease. Her strength caught him by surprise. He lifted his arms without protest this time, eyes darting anywhere but at her. Her fingers paused, just for a moment, at the sight of him. His physique wasn’t the kind of fit that made a show of itself. It was quieter than that. Built from years of discipline and silent training. The kind of strength that didn’t ask to be noticed. She swallowed, heat blooming at the edge of her cheeks.
Then she got to work.
Her hands hovered just above the bruised skin, fingers trailing through the air like threads of wind. Gideon heard her whispering softly, the language unfamiliar and lilting, spoken as though to the earth itself. A soft glow, blue-green and tender, bloomed beneath her hands and spilled gently over his skin.
The warmth that followed was not blinding, but soothing. It wrapped around him like a hot water bottle pressed against cold bone, seeping into the deep ache he hadn’t wanted to admit to. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when he opened them again, the pain was simply gone.
He stared at her. She looked focused still, her hands steady. When she finally let out a breath and let one palm rest gently on the now-healed place, he knew better than to interrupt. He waited until she looked at him again.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Her eyes softened.
He added, more quietly still, "Really. Thank you."
The sincerity in his voice made something flutter in her chest. She placed her other hand gently over his.
"Sleep in your bed tonight," she said. "Not the couch. And if anything feels off tomorrow, send me a message and I’ll bring you something to help with the healing. A potion or tonic."
Gideon sat up, testing his movement. He seemed genuinely surprised by how easily he could do so. "I feel as good as new, honestly. I should walk you home."
She gave him a look.
He raised both hands. "I know, I know. You just said rest. But I’m not letting you walk alone through the city at night, not after what happened at the festival."
Neia opened her mouth to argue.
"If you won’t let me walk you back," he continued, now serious, "then I want you to stay the night."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, like the slow dawn of understanding, his expression shifted.
"I mean… you can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s a very good couch. I paid a lot for it. It’s, uh, firm. In a supportive way. Not that I—"
She bit back a laugh.
"I really shouldn’t," she said, adjusting the strap over her shoulder. Her voice had softened again, but there was a hesitance beneath it. "I should head home. I don’t want to be a bother." What she didn’t say, what echoed loudest inside her mind, was that it would be absolutely unhinged of her to spend the night at Gideon Thorne’s apartment on the very first day she’d come over. The thought alone made her heart kick up a little too fast, as if someone had nudged it with a stick.
But Gideon took a step closer, his silhouette tall and steady in the dim light of his living room. He towered over her without meaning to, not as an act of power, but as a shield against the night. His brows were knit with concern, his voice unwavering.
"Then let me walk you home," he said. "Please. I insist."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he wasn’t finished.
"I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t know you got there safely."
Her gaze faltered. "It’s really not far," she said. "Just near the edge of the Community Ward. Barely fifteen minutes from here."
"All the better," he replied. "Then I can walk you there and be back resting in no time."
There was no trace of pain in his expression now. Whatever lingering soreness remained, it was clearly no match for his stubbornness. He was standing firm, and she could see it in the set of his shoulders. This was not a battle she was going to win.
"Alright," she relented with a quiet exhale. "But only because I can tell arguing with you is pointless."
That made him smile, just barely. It was quick and a little shy, but it reached his eyes. Before they stepped out, Neia crouched beside the couch and looked to the small, regal creature now curled near its armrest. "Thank you for your hospitality, Sir Pounceforth," she said solemnly, her fingers brushing gently against the tips of his fur. "You’ve been a wonderful host."
Sir Pounceforth gave her a slow, approving blink, then lifted his chin as though donning a cravat made of starlight.
"You are welcome in my home anytime, Miss Neia," he replied. She gave a small curtsy in return, utterly sincere.
Gideon, watching nearby, said nothing. But the way his eyes lingered on her, as if memorizing the exact tone of her voice and the way her fingers moved when she petted the cat, spoke volumes more than he likely intended.
The walk to Neia’s home was quiet, but not in the uncomfortable way. They didn’t talk much, only exchanged a few passing comments about the night air and how the city looked softer when the lamps were low and the streets half-empty. Gideon walked just slightly ahead, scanning their surroundings as naturally as breathing, always aware.
Always one step ahead of harm. Neia let herself enjoy the silence, stealing a glance every now and then at the man beside her. He walked with a calm sort of confidence, no longer stiff from pain but careful not to overstep, like he was still quietly cataloguing how close was too close.
When they reached her door, she turned to him, her hand resting on the worn handle.
"Thank you," she said with a small smile, already fiddling with her key. "For walking me back."
Gideon gave her a small bow at the waist, one hand to his chest, the perfect image of old-school honour. "It was my pleasure, Miss Neia."
His tone was mock-formal, but not teasing. If anything, it felt sincere.
She gave a soft chuckle, dipping her head in return before turning the key in the lock. The door clicked open. Gideon didn’t follow. He simply stayed by the steps, arms loosely at his sides, waiting like a sentinel until she was safely inside. Neia stepped into the entryway, the warmth of her home brushing against her face. She was just about to close the door when something in her chest tugged sharply.
She turned back around.
Gideon looked up in surprise and then – she wrapped her arms around him.
It was quick but full. A real hug, not a polite one. Her arms circled his waist, her head resting briefly against his chest as she murmured, "Thank you, Gideon. Really."
And before he could form a single word of response, she had already pulled back, stepped inside, and shut the door behind her with the gentlest click.
Inside, Neia immediately leaned her back against the wood, heart fluttering in her ribs. She pressed her palms to her face, her cheeks hot with disbelief. "I can’t believe I did that," she whispered through her fingers. Then came the giggle. Soft, girlish, delighted. "I really can’t believe I did that." But she was smiling.
Outside, Gideon hadn’t moved.
He stood there frozen, gaze fixed on the door as if it might open again. The ghost of her hug still lingered on his shirt. It took him a full ten seconds to blink. Then, like something uncoiling in his chest, he let out a quiet breath.
He turned and began walking home. Still confused. Still warm. Still smiling.
He had made it halfway back, his boots a familiar rhythm on the quiet pavement, when something tugged at the edges of his instincts. A rustling noise. Too sharp to be wind. Too deliberate.
Gideon slowed.
There was movement in the alleyway just ahead. Metal rattling, like someone trying to force open a gate. His posture changed immediately, body shifting into trained alertness. He stepped forward, hand drifting to the edge of his cloak where his shield charm was tucked out of sight.
"Who's there?"
His voice came out clear and cold. Not loud, but firm. The kind of tone that belonged to someone who was used to being obeyed.
From the shadows, two figures jerked upright. Their hoods caught the glint of a nearby lamp as they turned and bolted. Gideon started forward instinctively, but they were fast, already rounding a corner and vanishing into the night. He reached the alley entrance a moment later, pausing to glance down where they’d been. Nothing. No sign of forced entry. No tools left behind. Just quiet. He stayed there for a moment, eyes narrowing as he scanned the dark. Then, slowly, cautiously, he turned and resumed his walk home. His thoughts had shifted. Not fully, but just enough to disturb the softness from earlier.
And in a quiet part of his mind, something told him that this wasn’t over.