Chapter Text
The crack of a rifle echoed over the Kiramman estate, sharp and clean. Cassandra adjusted her grip and took a breath, eyes narrowing on the target pinned to a tree at the far end of the field. The evening sun glinted off the scope. The rifle in her arms felt like an extension of her body, perfectly balanced, perfectly aligned.
She steadied her breath, exhaled, fired.
The sharp crack split the silence. The bullet buried itself in the center of the wooden target at the far end of the clearing, just to the left of the bullseye.
“Not perfect,” she murmured, frowning.
The brown mare tethered a few meters away pawed at the ground, ears flicking at the sound. Cassandra slung her rifle over her back and straightened, brushing leaves off her trousers. She swung herself up onto the saddle with practiced ease, gripping the reins loosely in one hand. Her mother would be expecting her for dinner. Another lecture, no doubt, something about responsibility, politics, being the heir of a great house. Cassandra turned the mare toward the path and clicked her tongue.
“Let’s go, Liora.” The horse hesitated. Cassandra urged. “Come on.”
The mare bolted.
A snap of tension. A sudden jolt. Cassandra’s weight pitched forward, then back, too far back. Her feet slipped from the stirrups, the reins tore from her fingers. She hit the ground before she had time to scream. It happened too fast.
The moment she opened her eyes again, the world fuzzed at the edges, her vision tunneled. Cold mud pressed against her cheek. She could taste iron and earth. Then came the pain. She couldn't move her legs. She couldn’t even turn her head without stars bursting in her eyes.
Someone shouted her name. At first, she thought it might be her mother’s voice, sharp, furious, scared. Then someone else's hands were on her face, tapping her cheeks. "Miss Kiramman? Hey, stay with me." A medic.
She lost consciousness before they lifted her from the ground.
—
The next time she opened her eyes, the light was brutal, the air smelled of antiseptic and medication – a hospital. Cassandra blinked slowly, the room was unfamiliar to her. Her head throbbed. Everything below her ribs felt like it belonged to someone else, numb, tingling, and immobile. She tried to move her legs. Nothing happened.
“Hey. Try not to move.” A voice said from somewhere near the window. The voice was low, gently amused, not her mother, not a nurse, a man’s voice. "You're fresh out of surgery. Try not to rip out the work we just did."
She turned her head slightly, wincing, to see a man standing by the window, white coat open over purple scrubs. He was younger than she expected, tall, lean, with unmistakable Ionian eyes and dark blue hair.
"You operated on me?" she rasped. Her voice sounded too dry.
He stepped closer, now standing at the side of her bed. “Dr. Tobias Valekor,” he said softly. “Senior resident, pediatric surgery. I was part of the team that repaired your abdomen and stabilized your spine. You took quite the fall."
Cassandra frowned. "You're a children’s doctor."
He smiled faintly. “Usually. But when we get trauma from the Kiramman estate, of all places, where Councilor's daughter falls off a horse and ruptures her spleen, breaks two ribs, and fractures a lumbar vertebra... every hand is needed.”
Cassandra blinked again. “Spleen? You removed it?”
“No,” he shook his head. “We clamped the bleed and reinforced the capsule. You got lucky. If you’d landed lower, we’d be having a different conversation.”
She was silent for a moment. Her left leg was numb. She wanted to ask if she would walk again, but didn’t dare to ask it out loud.
The surgeon must have seen it in her face. “You have motor function,” he said gently. “Numbness is expected. There's swelling near L3 and L4. We installed temporary hardware to stabilize your spine. With time and physical therapy, you’ll likely regain full function.”
That word *likely* hung in the air like a death sentence. But he said it so plainly, like it was just a regular thing to say.
Cassandra’s fingers curled over the edge of the sheet. “How long will I be here?”
“At least two weeks. Probably more, depending on how your recovery goes.”
“My mother’s going to lose her mind.” She snorted, looking up at the ceiling.
“She already did,” he admitted, almost amused. “She’s currently arguing with the head of surgery in the hallway. Likely making her consider early retirement.”
Cassandra closed her eyes. “Gods.” He waited, respectful.
Then, she looked at him again. “How old are you?”
Tobias raised a brow at the shift in topic. “Twenty three.”
“You’re barely older than me.” She huffed.
“And still, I'm a doctor.”
“Do all residents do trauma surgery?”
“No,” he admitted. “But the attending on call knew I’d done my trauma elective early, and your condition deteriorated on the way in. So I scrubbed in.”
Her gaze sharpened. “So you weren’t supposed to be there.”
“I wasn’t. But if I hadn’t been, you might not have made it.”
They stared at each other for a beat. Then Cassandra commanded like only a true Kiramman heir could do. “I want my chart.”
Tobias blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I want to see the notes. Imaging. Surgery report. All of it.”
“You’re post-op day zero and still on morphine.”
“I am not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Then don’t treat me like I am.”
He didn’t smile this time, but didn’t get angry either. Instead, he stepped away, walked to the counter, returned with a clipboard and handed it to her.
Cassandra flipped through the pages. The images were brutal, black and white scans of her spine, annotated in thin blue letters, the hairline fracture across her L3 as obvious as a crack in glass. She stopped when she saw the surgical photo. Her abdominal cavity, opened, clamped, bleeding. Her spleen like a bruised fruit. Her rib partially retracted to access the internal bleeding. She swallowed. Then handed the clipboard back.
“You went in through the upper quadrant to reach the retroperitoneum?” she asked quietly.
He raised a brow. “You read medical textbooks?”
“Sometimes. Mostly anatomy manuals. I’ve shot things, Doctor, I like to know what’s behind the skin.”
That got a smile. “Good aim?”
“Excellent aim.”
Tobias looked at her for a long moment. “I’ll make sure you see the physical therapist tomorrow,” he said finally. “You’ll feel worse before you feel better, but I’ve seen worse recoveries than yours. Much worse.” Cassandra didn’t say anything, just nodded.
Tobias started toward the door, then paused. “Don’t push yourself too hard yet,” he said over his shoulder. “And if you get dizzy or feel any tingling in your hands, press the call button. That means your spine’s angry.”
She watched him go. He didn’t look back.
—
That night, the hospital was loud in a quiet way. Machines beeped and pulsed, IVs hissed faintly with medication. Cassandra stared at the ceiling, she couldn’t sleep and tried not to move.
Her back throbbed, deep and rhythmic. Every shift of her ribs sent a bloom of ache into her gut. They had kept her NPO until the swelling went down. She was starving.
At some point, a nurse came to check her vitals. Cassandra kept her eyes closed, but she could hear the soft clatter of the cuff, feel the gentle pressure on her arm. Her heart rate was high, but she didn’t say anything. The nurse adjusted the morphine line, muttered something about inflammation, and left again.
The second morning in the hospital began with a scream, not hers. Somewhere down the hall, a child howled in that raw, primal pitch that meant either a broken bone or a broken promise. A nurse’s voice followed, calm but rushed, cutting through the usual background music of a hospital. Cassandra blinked toward the window, where morning light slid through, spilling across the floor in sharp streaks.
Her back still throbbed like a tide, her mouth tasted like metal. The morphine helped, but didn’t stop the pain completely.
There was a knock at the door. She opened one eye. It was that doctor again. He held something wrapped in paper. He didn’t come in, just leaned against the doorframe.
“I’m not technically supposed to do this,” Tobias gave her a small smile. “But you haven’t eaten, and you’re cleared for softs as of this morning.”
She stared at the package. “Is that a bribe?”
“It’s soup. From the night staff, Piltover Central makes awful food, and I owe them three favors.”
“You give soup to all your patients?” She blinked, surprised.
“No. Just the ones who tell me they’ve shot things.”
She laughed, it hurt. He smiled.
Cassandra was halfway through the cup of soup Tobias had left when the storm truly arrived. A knock on the door, sharp and familiar. She had enough time to groan, “No-” before the door flew open.
Councilor Cecelia Kiramman swept in like a thundercloud, flanked by a sharp-faced vastaya assistant. She wore a navy blue coat that swirled like a cape, her hair perfectly tied in a low bun, her lipstick was perfect too. Her fury – visible.
“You could’ve died!” Cecelia snapped, crossing the room. She didn’t touch Cassandra, didn’t even sit, just stood at the edge of the bed like she might interrogate her own daughter.
“I didn’t,” Cassandra said, voice raspy.
“Your spleen ruptured. Your spinal column-”
“Compressed. I know. I was there.”
Cecelia glared. “How could you be so reckless?”
Cassandra opened her mouth then closed it. Her fingers gripped the blanket hard enough to make the IV tug at her hand.
“I was practicing,” she said finally. “Like you taught me.”
“Don’t pin this on me!.”
“I’m not. The horse spooked.”
“You landed like someone who doesn't understand how easily a moment of stupidity can end a legacy." The room went silent.
Cassandra stared at her mother. “You’re not even asking if I’m okay.”
Cecelia’s jaw twitched. She turned briefly to the assistant. “Leave us.” Vastaya hesitated, then left the room.
“I saw the scans,” Cecelia sighed quietly. “I spoke to the chief of surgery. They stabilized your spine, but there’s still swelling. You could lose mobility if it’s mishandled.”
“I know, Mother.”
“And the doctor assigned to you is some Ionian child who specializes in-” she waved a hand, as if the word was too ridiculous to say “-infants.”
Cassandra bit back a groan. “He saved my life.”
“Not single handedly.” Cecelia’s expression folded into something unreadable. She walked toward the window. “I should’ve transferred you to a private clinic,” she said.
“No,” Cassandra cut off sharply. “I don’t want to be moved.”
The matriarch turned slowly. “You think this place is good enough for a Kiramman?”
Cassandra shifted, a lance of pain making her grit her teeth. “It’s good enough for people who can’t afford private wings and personal guards. Maybe if you spent more time here, you’d understand what the rest of the city lives like.”
A dangerous silence.
“I see,” Cecelia uttered. “You’ve decided to be noble.”
“I’ve decided to think for myself.”
“And is that Ionian boy a part of that decision?”
The air in the room shifted. Cassandra stared at her mother, not understanding that line of suspicion in her voice.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been awake less than forty eight hours and already speaking of him like he did more than just his job. You’ve noticed him. I can see it.” The matriarch sighed and stepped closer, her hand hovered near her daughter’s wrist, almost touched, then withdrew.
“You’ll recover,” she whispered softly. “You’re strong. But don’t confuse a trauma bond for affection. You don’t know him.”
“Mother! I didn’t say I did.”
“Good.”
With that Cecelia turned and swept out again, faster than she came.
—
Later that afternoon Tobias returned, this time he was holding a small case and a set of folded notes.
“Your Mother visited,” he stated.
“Oh yes,” Cassandra muttered. “With armed commentary.”
Tobias smiled, it was small, tired, but not unkind. “She scared my colleague this morning.”
“Mother does that. Sorry.”
He nodded, set the case down and opened it. Inside was a portable ultrasound machine.
“I’m going to check for residual fluid. You mind?”
She blinked. “You think I’m bleeding again?”
“No,” he assured. “But your hemoglobin was borderline this morning. I’d rather be too careful than not enough.”
Cassandra nodded. “Do your worst.”
He gloved up, squirted gel onto the probe, and gently pressed it to her side. The gel was cold, but his hands weren’t. The screen lit up with black and white shadows and shapes. Tobias moved slowly, eyes scanning the grayscale landscape of her abdomen.
“Kidney’s clear. No free fluid behind the spleen. Liver looks good,” he murmured. “You’re holding steady.”
She let out a breath, “you always narrate like that?”
“Habit. Helps me focus.”
“Is that a thing for pediatric surgeons?”
He snorted. “Only the ones who trained with trauma teams. We’re taught to say what we see out loud. No room for missed steps when you're working on someone that small.”
“Why children?” Cassandra turned her head to look at his face. He didn’t answer right away. Just wiped the gel from her skin and packed up the scanner.
“I always knew I wanted to help people,” he admitted in calm voice after a moment.
“That’s the easy answer.”
“I’m a second son,” he went on, “And in my House, that meant I had a choice. My brother, he’ll inherit the trade, the family name, all that. He was born for it, really enjoys it. I didn’t.” He glanced up at her then, “So I left for Piltover when I was sixteen. I thought I’d do general medicine, at first. Maybe surgery, maybe research. But then a visiting professor brought me along to observe a surgery, and that’s how I knew. I suppose, if you’re given the freedom of choice... you should use it to do something that matters.”
“You’re very strange,” she confessed finally, but her voice was not unkind. Tobias looked over, brow lifting slightly in question.
“You could have done anything with that freedom,” she said. “And you chose... screaming children.”
He laughed at that. “Maybe I’m not ambitious enough for Piltovan standards.”
Cassandra met his eyes and smiled despite herself. “You chose what you wanted… and my Mother likes to remind me,” Cassandra added dryly “ that I should be grateful, that it’s my duty to continue what she’s built, that I should be... proud, honored.”
Tobias stayed quiet, packing the last of the equipment away with careful hands. Cassandra thought he might let the comment pass like everyone else usually did. Instead, he leaned back in the chair beside her bed. “She’s not wrong, though,” he spoke after a moment. “It’s something remarkable, what your family built here.”
Cassandra let out a small, sharp breath through her nose. She leaned her head back against the pillows staring at the ceiling, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if shielding herself.
“Yes., you’re right. But sometimes I feel… like it’s too much,” she muttered. “Like it doesn't matter what I feel. It’s not about me, it’s about the House, the name, the legacy. And I’m just-” She cut herself off. Her throat was tight. Tobias didn’t rush her, he stayed exactly where he was, waiting for her to continue.
“It’s never been about who I am. Only about what I am supposed to carry forward.” She said at last, bitterly. The silence stretched out between them, the only sound the distant hum of the city filtering through the stone walls.
“You know,” Tobias was the one to break the silence. “You’re allowed to want things. Even if it makes you feel selfish.” Cassandra didn’t look at him.
“You should be sleeping,” he muttered finally, looking away.
“I should,” she agreed.
“I’ll go.” But he didn’t move, not right away.
When Tobias finally broke the spell, reaching for the case, his fingers brushed her wrist by accident, warm and steady. Cassandra was struck by the absurd, treacherous thought that she didn’t want him to go at all. She turned her head, just slightly, and caught the way he hesitated in the doorway. How he looked back once, briefly, before slipping into the hall without another word.