Medieval Love, Modern Revenge

Recovery came slowly, my body mending while my heart fractured in ways I couldn't yet comprehend. The stone walls of the infirmary had become my prison, each day bringing new hope that Stefan would remember, that his eyes would light with recognition when he saw me.

But hope was a cruel mistress.

"Do you remember the night we met?" I asked him during one of his dutiful visits. He sat stiffly in the wooden chair beside my bed, maintaining the polite distance of a stranger. "You were working late in the library, surviving on vending machine coffee and determination."

Stefan's brow furrowed with what looked like genuine effort. "I'm sorry, but no. Nothing comes to mind."

"I bought you dinner that night. You were so proud, you didn't want to accept it, but you were practically starving." My voice cracked as I reached for his hand. "You said I was your guardian angel."

He pulled away gently but firmly. "Perhaps you're confusing me with someone else. The fever can cause vivid dreams that feel like memories."

The dismissal in his tone cut deeper than any blade. This wasn't confusion—this was polite rejection wrapped in false concern.

Through the narrow window, I watched Stefan cross the courtyard with increasing frequency, always heading toward the commander's quarters. Always toward her.

Rosalia Silva was everything I wasn't in this medieval world—born to privilege, adorned in fine silks while I wore rough-spun wool, commanding respect while I was merely tolerated. Her dark hair cascaded in perfect waves, her skin unmarked by battle scars. She moved through the camp like royalty, which, in essence, she was.

The first time I saw them together, I told myself it was coincidence. Stefan sat beside her on a blanket spread beneath an oak tree, sharing bread and wine while she laughed at something he'd said. The sound carried across the courtyard like silver bells, musical and carefree.

I pressed my face against the cold stone of my window, watching him lean closer to catch her words. His posture was relaxed, engaged—nothing like the stiff formality he showed me.

"They make a handsome pair, don't they?"

I turned to find Marta, one of the camp followers, standing in my doorway with a knowing smirk. Her eyes glittered with malicious pleasure.

"The deputy commander's daughter has quite taken with our mysterious strategist," she continued, settling herself on the edge of my bed uninvited. "Of course, a man of his talents deserves a woman of proper breeding, don't you think?"

My hands clenched the rough blanket. "Stefan and I—"

"Oh yes, your delusions." Marta's voice dripped false sympathy. "Poor dear, the fever has quite addled your mind. Claiming to be his lover when anyone can see he barely tolerates your presence. It's almost embarrassing."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I forced my voice to remain steady. "I saved his life."

"And he's grateful, certainly. But gratitude isn't love, is it?" She leaned closer, her breath sour with ale. "Lady Rosalia says you tell the most fantastical stories—flying metal birds, buildings that touch the sky. The poor girl thinks you've lost your wits entirely."

After Marta left, I watched through my window as Stefan and Rosalia walked hand in hand along the camp's perimeter. She pointed at something in the distance, and he nodded, his attention completely focused on her words. When she stumbled slightly on the uneven ground, his arm immediately circled her waist to steady her.

The gesture was so natural, so protective—exactly how he used to touch me.

Weeks passed in this torment. I grew stronger physically while dying emotionally. Stefan's visits became shorter, more perfunctory. He'd ask about my healing with the detached concern of a stranger, then make excuses to leave.

Meanwhile, Rosalia made sure I witnessed their growing intimacy. She'd walk past my window at precisely the times when I took my daily exercise, Stefan's arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest. She'd organize elaborate picnics in the courtyard where I couldn't help but see them, feeding him grapes while he gazed at her with obvious adoration.

The final blow came on a morning when nausea had been plaguing me for days. I'd dismissed it as lingering effects from my injuries until the pattern became undeniable. The missed cycles, the morning sickness, the exhaustion that went beyond physical recovery.

I was pregnant.

My hands trembled as I pressed them against my still-flat stomach. This child was conceived before Stefan's supposed memory loss, proof of our love that couldn't be denied or forgotten.

When Stefan arrived for his daily visit, I could barely contain my excitement. Surely this would break through whatever barrier had formed in his mind.

"Stefan, I have wonderful news." I reached for his hands, but he stepped back instinctively. "I'm carrying your child."

The color drained from his face. His expression shifted from polite concern to something approaching revulsion.

"That's impossible," he said flatly.

"No, it's true. From before your injury, before you lost your memory. This baby is proof of what we had together."

Stefan's jaw tightened, his eyes growing cold in a way that made my blood freeze. "I would never... with someone like you." The words came out harsh, disgusted. "Whatever delusion you're clinging to, this ends now."

He turned and strode from the room, leaving me alone with the crushing weight of his rejection and the terrible certainty that the man I'd loved was truly gone.