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Chapter Text

The sun climbed into the sky until its highest peak where Icarus couldn’t reach. The swordsman, sleek in a coat of sweat, hair messy with wind brushed through her tresses, gazed at the cuts over the wooden figure. Shades of her sword littered the rough surface of the dummy as she contemplated a rehearsed technique. She was oblivious to the tall grass grazing her calf, her body was mute to the blanket of the cold air around her. All that mattered was the target. She kept her stance, her calves flexed as she held herself, suspending in time before sprinting. She quickly swung her sword forward, twisting her body as she swiped to put in more power. Enough that the sword went right through the wood, cutting the dummy’s ‘head’ clean off.She panted as while stuttering to a stop, looking back to see her work behind her in just the way she wanted it. Pride swelled at her chest, and it felt like the giggle that came was so fast, it was as if it didn’t ring from her.

“Good work”

A soft voice snaked behind her, coiling her in a frozen trepidation of embarrassment.

She looked back to see the sunlight pressed on his light features as if were molding some statue of God. Her eyes squinted, trying to adjust to the gleam of his armor. Usually, it was always simpler to look at him than to look at the slaughtered carnage around them during their battles- but this time it felt difficult.

“You were watching the whole time, Griffith?”

“Is there anything wrong with that?” He asked.

His voice, like feathers, brushed her for so long that it made her raw in the most uncomfortable places.

“When you don’t announce yourself, indeed there is something wrong.” She said as she put her sword back into her hilt. She appeared agitated while she paced passed him. The mocking calm he had only seemed to spur her further.

“But you’re out here, where anyone can land their eyes on you.” He began to follow behind her like a phantom,

“How is it a sin to check on my favorite sword fighter?” The sword master turned on the ball of her heel to look at crystal blue eyes.

“Because you know I dislike being watched? Because I could mistake you for an enemy? There is no other place to practice, of course I’ll be out here.” An incredulous snort sifted through her nose, her hands catching on her hips.

“Right here, and not just beyond the hills to the forest where the trees can hide you?” He was suddenly beside her, leaning in playfully with a whisper that plucked some strange feeling in her.

“If you did mistake me as an enemy, do you think you would hurt me?” She stopped on the trail to the camp, snapping her gaze up only to find him craned above her with a disturbing look of calm.

“And be ambushed?” She asked, crossing her arms, “Yes, I would.” His full lips stretched into a smile; it was the same one he would use when courting officials. His giggle turned into full laughter in front of her as if the notion was absurd.

“Hey!” She yelled in defense.

“I’m remembering our fights when we were young, and I must say… whenever did you hurt me in swords?” He lilts playfully.

The sword master simply glared at him before sucking at her tongue, continuing the trail back to camp. These jests were familiar since she was young. Even when he tugged her from the rubble of her war-torn village, he had this sort of humor. When they were by themselves, they were sheltered away from the elements of weather and people alike. She could never understand if it was because he was correct or if it was to demean her.

Even though he was a year older, he had taken her in and tended to her when they were just kids. Possibly even groomed her to be the absolute member before the Band of Hawk was ever conspired. And she would grow like a tree being molded into shape in just the way he wanted. Though blankets and skin would be shared during the winter, and rations of food gathered would often be split for the both of them, it was for a purpose. For his goal in having a kingdom or from the compassion of his heart, she didn’t know. They would often race down the slums together on foot, arm wrestling, wooden swords before iron, playing games always meant competing. Even now.

“I defended myself against the bandits of war that ultimately killed my parents, successfully killing them at eight years of age, there is a rather large chance I could harm you.” She smirks as she nudged him with her elbow.

Though it was playful, he didn’t smile.

“When I found you, you were the only one left standing, clutching your father’s sword like a vice while the bandits were slaughtered on the ground. Those were four men. I never doubted you would be something. What I’m saying is that I know you like the back of my hand. You’re superb in your constitution but you’re loyal. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

She paused and looked at him as they walked together. “You talk as though I’m your dog.”

“Am I not yours?” He asked in response.

“Why would you be?” She asked and when she looked at him, his face stunned her into silence. He was staring at her with this slight furrow in his brow. He looked rather irritated… or upset. It surprised her.

Later that night at the camp, he was watching her through the flames, the expression lingered on him like a ghost.

“Hey, how was the practice earlier?” J udeau asked, shooting her a smile. Everyone was tucked into the fire, leaning in to catch its warmth.

“Same old. Just doing a thousand swipes.” She smiled, Griffith’s expression nagged at her like a rock in her boot. It was inevitable that she would end up in his tent tonight, asking him why he was so upset. There were times when he gave her this silent treatment to beckon her into what he wanted, whether it be actions or explanations. He played her like a fiddle.

“You’re still doing that technique?” He asked, gesturing his arms in the same way she would swipe. The other band members drank their ail, talking amongst themselves. The chatter only made Griffith’s silence so much louder.

“I have to perfect it-“ suddenly the wooden log she sat on jolted as Pippin sat beside her to join in on the fire, his size almost tilting the wooden log.

The swordsman giggled but when her eyes strayed to Griffith, he wasn’t smiling. He was simply staring. Anxiety began to rise in her chest as she glanced away to focus on an attempt to have fun in this night.

Pippin suddenly sifted a jug of ail to her, as if he knew the tension brewing in the air between her and Griffith. The swordsman gave a half smile as Pippin, for how large and burly he was, he’s genuinely one of the most insightful members of the band. He somehow was able to spot her sorrow before she could fully see it herself. It may have been her expression that gave her away, yet no one but him ever came with simple pleasures to help with her stress.

“Thanks, Pippin.” She murmurs before throwing back the ail, downing it as if it were water.

Judeau gasped.

“Woah, breaking a new record for the fastest drinker, huh?”

She kept drinking until the jug was empty and beckoning calls of the alcohol began to have her body dance and sway in a drunken stupor.

“What can I say?” She championed with a quick slur to throw itself over her words. Suddenly Griffith stands, snapping everyone into silence with all their eyes on him. He walks away to his tent only making the swords master’s heart drop into her stomach. She was quick to hand pipping her empty cup, a signal to fill it with more ail.

When the flames died down and everyone settled in their own tents, she was outside of Griffith’s contemplating whether to enter or not. She stammered nervously while the ground below her swayed. Drunk and exhausted, she turned to leave only to hear the whispers of fabric from the tent.

Upon looking back, Griffith appeared just enough for the moon and amber light from the dying fire to mold themselves over him. He expected her to come inside and when she did, settling herself towards the corner of the tent in a feeble attempt to give him space, he was turned away, tending to his sword.

“What’s gotten into you now?” She asked

“Now?” Griffith softly asked in the blanket of darkness in the tent.

“Yes." A pause of silence settled over him as he glanced away from her.

“I’ve taken care of you since we were kids, I always looked out for your best interest beyond myself, tended to you when you were in need and somehow you negate that.”

Her brow quirked up as she stared at him.

“How did I ever negate that, Griffith?”

“Because you treat me like your dog and don’t even see it.” He hissed in a whisper.

The swordsman stared at him for sometime before sighing in frustration.

“I don’t treat you like one, you think you are for some reason.”

“Did what I just describe not sound like it?” His eyes widen as he glared at her. He looked haunting as the only light that slipped in was through the crack of the tent flaps. The faint amber light of the dying fire pressed on his angular features, making him appear even more irritated.

“Then what do you want me to do?” She asked, finally relenting. He stayed silent as he kept his intense gaze on her. He adjusted his swords as he turned away from her.

“Being grateful is a start-“

“I am grateful!” She yelled, nearly shooting to a stand in frustration.

“You aren’t!” A crazed expression showed itself before it quickly slipped off his face.

“You aren’t if you think that loyalty means you’re a dog to me! At the very least, I am to you. How could you think less of that?!” Her shoulders slumped as the heavy weight of guilt dressed her like an iron coat.

“Griffith, I’m not going to call you a dog. You’re my closest friend. You’re my savior, You’re family.”

“Its not about that. Its that calling you loyal somehow equates to being my dog? You’re labelling it like that then equates me to a dog in your eyes because I described what I am to you and what I’m doing for you.” Tears began to well up in her eyes as they threatened to fall.

“I… I didn’t mean it like that.” The swordsman croaked, “I just didn’t want you to believe you were a dog to me. Of course, I’m loyal.” No one saw this side of him but her. And even then, there was some sort of veil that covered him that fractured her gaze where she couldn’t fully see him in the abundance of all his forms and the layers he came with. She sniffled while the tears fell as she waited for his reply. It some form of approval she reached out for like a beggar parched for water.

“Don’t equate your loyalty to me to being my dog. Ever” He glared at her before turning back around to his weapons stowed away.  “You may retire for the night.”

Silently the sword master stands. She opened her mouth to protest before falling silent and turning herself to the night so that it may grant her some slumber.

It didn’t.

She only had retained 2 hours of sleep before the smell of morning dew reached her, and the birds cackled their same tunes. When Dawn showed its face to her through the parted flaps of her tent was when she was awake and exhausted. She crawled out from her tent, following the trail of the river, clothes tucked to her side as she figured the cold river would wake her up if she were to bathe in it.

The water was rigid, she was convinced she would die if she didn’t bathe quick enough. She quickly paced out from the waters, attempting to gather her clothes only to find a towel folded for her to use. Her eyes widened as she shot her glance around the forest line trying to spot who was around, quickly wrapping herself in the towel to cover her naked form.

When she had dried and dressed herself, returning to the camp she paused seeing Griffith was the only one standing outside. The answers dawned before her in his very presence. No one else would know she bathe this early. She simply stared at him and he stared back before she turned to her tent to put away her clothes.

“Are you ready to race?” He asked suddenly, her heart jumping to her throat as she stopped to the sound of her voice.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The forest was unforgiving. It was a whipping to her backlash that for once she wished was physical instead of time teasing her until the sun dipped below the lands. She was doing it again. Reminiscing, more like- ruminating the past like it was skin she couldn’t tear off. She paced silently for hours with Viola. She would've been driven mad if it weren't for the snivels and snorts from the steed's nostrils reminding her that she wasn't alone in the desolate sea of green. And she remembered. She daydreamed while finding a hint of a path back to camp. She remembered herself as a bustling child, before the bandits, before the band, before Griffith.

She wish she didn’t remember. She wished it was melted in her mind, far from memory like it was a pandora’s box that she knew not to touch. Rising humidity made her weary while traversing confusing paths made the journey back more treacherous. When she finally saw the telltale smoke twisting into the skies from the camp fires, she sighed in relief. After she tethered her steed to the wooden post hidden behind tall trees, her eyes flickered to Griffith casually sitting with everyone during a conversation with Guts, likely of tomorrow’s drills before the raid. His expression, the tranquil that had always been his mask for as long as she could remember. The swordswoman was quick to step out from the line of sight to sift in the shadows from canvas tents.

“You missed the strategy meeting today.” Casca’s voice called from her tent where she peered through to her. The duelist cringed as if she’d been caught stealing.

“I’ve been busy.” She replied with a sheepish scoff. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, let alone Casca. She was the sort of person who knew how to read the silence between words better than words sometimes and it would’ve been obvious how offput the swordswoman was in front of her.

“Griffith said you were working on special training exercises?” Casca asked. Now it was a test of what Griffith didn’t say. The dueler opened her mouth as she thought of a lullaby.

“Yes… a new sword technique I was working on.” And Not contemplating what happened in the flower field. Not lost for hours. Iron winnowing made for a beat of silence.

“When did Griffith arrive back?” The swordswoman continued.

“Just before midday.” Casca replied absenly while checking the sharp of her blade. A vein ticked out from the sword maiden's neck as she realized he left her to her own devices after reacting rightfully to his transgressions. Griffith’s laughter rung like he heard the conversation between them. It was an annoyance that festered so much she abruptly turned in the direction of her tent.

“Don't forget about the meeting for tomorrow" The sword master turned to look at Casca, giving her a nod before departing quickly. She nearly ran towards her tent so that the campfire wouldn’t catch her. It felt like an inconvenience for her tent to be near the campfire, damn near sitting on the log with everyone else. it was a beacon to her whereabouts at night. It was insisted on because there was ‘no more room for any other place but next to the fire’ according to Rickert. But the rolled camp layout maps were in Griffith’s tent. And given Rickert’s age, it wasn’t a stretch that he'd follow those maps to the T.

She pulled back her canvas flap-

“You’re back.” Griffith blinked and the attenuative gaze he held with Guts flickered to her.

Her heart slipped into her stomach. Throat uncomfortably swelled. She could see the faint smile that Griffith held and she knew. There was recognition in the way he managed her absence like it was a miniscule step out of duty and not some god awful search for the camp.

“The terrain for the next raid is quite similar to where you were training today,” That leer of his widened, “Perhaps you could share what you learned with the others? Or would you like to talk about it to get caught up on the meeting held earlier?” Crackling flames punctuated the silence between them while she fought not to look at him. Leather creaked in her clenched fist.

“I wasn’t thinking about the terrain, so I wouldn’t know. I talked to Casca about the meeting.” His expression remained unchanged while he set his cup down- the sounding clink only pulling everyone’s attention to it.

“No? The field of blue orchids didn’t catch your eye? They’re quite rare in these parts.”

He would twist the knife and season it with salt… anything to get her riled. Judeau, who was sitting on the adjacent log, snapped his interest to the sound of the flowers.

“I didn’t know they grew around here?”

“They typically don’t.” Crystal eyes never left hers, “They need very specific conditions to thrive. The right amount of care, protection…” He paused before he finally slipped his eyes from her.

“Sometimes they simply grow in places they shouldn’t.”

She’d wait for the other shoe to drop all night. Lips kept pressed to themselves as she decided not to engage. Bated fear was for the fact that as soon as she opened her mouth, she would be fighting with him in front of everyone. She would regret weeks from his elusive petty moves. It was easy to see. Guts was silent as he studied her. The same sort of contemplation that Casca held that made her stomach twist.

Griffith’s fingers drummed once on his cup before he stood. His tongue graced her name.

“Would you help me review the maps for tomorrow? I value your insight on the terrain.”

Fuck the terrain. She gawkily settled her gaze on everyone, their credulous glances only made her crumble up on the inside. Like she was wrong to not want to talk.

“…I’m… too exhausted from earlier, I was going to head straight for bed...” She gave an apologetic grin, but it wavered at the slight hardened edge of Griffith’s gaze.

Judeau’s eyes kept on his while he realized the circumstances. It was polite on the surface.

“Well,” Griffith conceded with a warning she picked up like a sickness. “I wouldn’t want you tired on your saddle tomorrow.” Guts glanced at Griffith, the gears churning. Though he didn’t speak.

“I can help with the maps,” Griffith's attention cut to Judeau like a sword.

“It is appreciated, though, I specifically wanted her detailed observation on the terrain given her experience.” She was straining herself to stay silent before she nearly pleaded with her eyes to her tent. Her teeth were audibly grinding. Judeau went to speak again but was clipped off with Griffith clearing his throat. A smile placated his lips.

“Afterall, we wouldn’t want anyone getting lost on orders when they’re weary.”

The duelist pardoned Judeau’s weak attempt to save her from an inevitable situation as a cover for how she truly felt. Though when she felt the need to reprimand him for what he was doing she felt a tinge of guilt for wanting to do so.

Was he upset because of what I said? She thought.

“Indeed, I’m sure I’ll be more available in the morning. Have a goodnight then.” She said before she quickly crept behind her tent and sighed in irritation.

“Now, The next raid should be interesting,” His melodic voice carried through the flames between the sparse members of the band.

“I’m counting on everyone’s particular talents..” His velvet chatter faded in the night air as she tied her tent closed. tight knots made for a lock as if it made a difference to hearing his voice all night. Hearing him felt like she was sleeping on clattered steel. Ever since the band grew exponentially, his stem began to grow thorns. His temperament prickled at her. Sleep finally greeted her when the silence began to descend over the camp. The morning came and it all felt too similar to the night. When she sifted up, she quickly gathered for her clothes to bathe. She spent a moment untethering the fabric that acted as a lazy padlock for her privacy last night. Fortunately, when she did bathe, Griffith didn’t arrive to corner her in the water like she originally expected.

She paced back to find him sitting alone cross legged on a withered stump, watching pink saturating the sky. His blade caught the dawn’s blush while his fingers traced the edge echoing a lion admiring its own claws. The morning mist had clung to him like a second skin. He didn’t need to turn when her steps crinkled grass behind him. It was known it was her presence by the tempo of her steps.

“You bathe earlier each day.” He remarked, his voice rippling like the river’s surface she was under. The dagger stilled in his hand. “One may think you’re avoiding something.” Tilting his head, he peeked at her reflection through the knife. When he finally turned, twin pools of still water graced her. She stared back like they were depths to swim through.

“The only thing I’m avoiding is exhaustion.” Her eyes kept to his as a defiance began to boil beneath the surface. “Otherwise, you’ve been acting strange ever since this band grew from a budling”

“Strange?” He repeated in breathy laughter, “At least your truths sift in between your comments.” He unfurled his legs and stood abruptly. “It’s that, isn’t it? The flower field? Letting you find your way back here?”

His whispers didn’t slither into other tents. She stood courageously on her ground and didn’t move when he began to pace towards her.

“What else would it be?”

His distance was a yard, keeping the veil of boundaries over her.

“Responsibilities mounting, sacrifices climbing.” He admitted, arms cross behind his back. The sun showed itself from the veil of the earth like a spectre and if she wasn’t in the pot of her feelings then her breath would’ve been taken away. And it wouldn’t have been a sunrise that would’ve taken it.

“Are you okay, Griffith? Tell me what is going on.” She asked and his eyes slightly widened before settling into a gentle expression.

“Does it truly matter? I should be asking you the same.”

“...Why did you make me walk back?” With a bitten lip, he thought. It was a bad habit considering her gaze would flicker to them only for confused feelings to whirl. Azure eyes furrow before he sighed.

“Because I attempted to offer you to the camp, and you declined. You told me to fuck off. I wasn’t going to run off after you after what... had occurred. I figured you needed the space. I wasn’t going to leave you to your devices. If you hadn’t returned to your tent, I would’ve gone looking after you. If you are truly exhausted, by all means, stay here and avoid the raid.”

“I’m not that tired. Though, you waved that around to the ignorance of everyone yesterday?"

“I thought... it would provoke you to speak to me, even if you were angry.” And then he glanced at his knife again, likely trying to avoid her eyes.

“I apologize.” The sword master's tightly held posture relaxed. There were paradoxes she couldn’t fully understand.

“Do you? Really?” Her gaze settled into him and his shoulders shuddered.

“Yes. I felt I did too much yesterday. It was uncharacteristic of me- “

“Why did you do it?” She wanted all the pretenses thrown out. For that elusive fog between them gone like she wanted it gone from the day they met. This was confusing, putting her in a spiral. There was an intensity that grew so much it threatened to coat her in confusion again.

“I was frustrated.” His mouth paused before opening to say more, “We are like a lopsided painting and the more I tilt it one way, the more it looks skewed. It never feels... correct.” What did correct even mean to him? To her it meant what they’ve always been.

“What do you mean?” A step closer and he appeared to hide within himself. A tinge of fear settled in her that sparked wildfire and without her realizing she was taking shorter breaths. Griffith perceived this and abruptly she felt the smooth balm of his palm brushing against her arm.

“Calm.” He gently pulled her closer for her to hear the entirety of his whispers. “You are crucial. Do not doubt that. But to say I fully know in what way, would be a lie.” The pad of his thumb rubbed circles onto the skin of her arm and the air began to thicken. A flicker of her nod and he sifts his hand away, garnering her space.

“Confusion isn’t a comfortable feeling, you know.” The swordswoman kicked at the dirt.

“Was it less confusing when we were younger? Sharing tents, telling each other stories? Was it better when we did those things?”

He asked and she expected a grin in jest, but it never came. The camp stirred alive underneath tents and with it came the requiem of their conversation. Yawns gave sunset to the solace of dawn. The words over her tongue melted and eyes skimmed conspiratorially over the shifting behind white, beige fabric. Corkus slipped out from his tent. Helmet between forearm and side, brow quirking to the scene that held Griffith and the swordswoman. Shoulders stiffen before she abruptly turned for her tent.

Griffith’s words were left unanswered when she went to her tent for her armor. They didn’t race that morning. In fact, her eyes fell dry in contemplation over the spirals in bark after she had strapped her armor on, ready for the night raid to begin. The sky was orange, farewell playing for the sun. Griffith was on his white steed, speaking in one last assurance of the plan for the night. It was an attempt to save more lives, but she couldn’t simply listen. Not while the events eddied in her head like a vortex to no end.

“You listening?”

A rustle came to her shoulder and Rickert grinned at her to get her to pay attention. More like saving her life. The hint of frustration she held for him faded when she saw his young face hidden behind what seemed like tin. It wasn’t like he was malevolent. She just wished he knew more to understand the small things that hid in plain sight. Lips curled back at him in assurance, and she looked over at Griffith hiding behind the band.

When their horses moved in unison was when she was under observation again. Her mind on autopilot as she guided the reins in her hands to follow up hills and paths. Rickert had kept his horse’s pace matching hers.

“You don’t need to do that.” She scoffed, reading the young mercenary immediately for what he was doing. “You don’t seem at all focused.”

He grumbled as he focused to the line of horseman in front of them. Griffith in front, turned away in silence.

“I’m focused. I’m just in thought.” A sigh and a corner of her lip curled. “Who said you were the leader, anyhow?” She changed the subject in the form of a jest instead of directly answering him.

“Making sure a friend is safe doesn’t require so. You skipped out on the strategy meeting.” What nearly came from the sword woman’s mouth was a seething recall of yester events, but instead she simply regarded him with an arched brow.

“Yeah, well it wasn’t necessarily my fault- it was honestly a long way back.” She wasn’t going to admit more than that. Rickert gave her a quizzical stare before putting his awareness ahead. Armor clacks as everyone marched to the drum of the hooves in front of them before Griffith’s steed stopped, it’s silver tail flicking before turning. There was a directive already in mind.

“Casca, reinforce the northern flank. Guts, The east. Judeau, take the archers into the trees, watch for the exit points specifically- if we need help on either side, you help.” Almost in unison they nodded to Griffith’s words, the swordsman stood carefully awaiting orders only to be washed by a brush of indifference it seemed. Until the very end.

"You will secure the northern front along with Casca- I'm counting on you to clear out that flank." Horses parted between his words to catch her. She silently nodded.

"Alright, lets disband quickly." He barked. The swordsman was a shadow behind Casca in a long stretch in the darkness framed by evergreen as they quietly paced on foot.

"We must remain stealthy as we go, unless we want to be killed on the spot." Casca's mutter travelled to the silent party. Each step was a risk.

The forest breathed with the rustle of chainmail and held breaths. Moonlight carved silver veins through the canopy as Casca signaled the unit to halt, her hand slicing downward like a blade. The sword maiden’s fingers flexed around her hilt, the memory of Griffith’s thumb against her lip dissolving as palls slipped over pine and grass. A sentry’s helmet gleamed

“Two scouts. You take the left.” Casca nearly mouthed.

The sword maiden's body moved before she could be pulled back into the sarcophagus of her thoughts. Her sword slid free without sound, boots crushing damp moss as she closed the distance. The scout turned too late- her blade split his throat before his cry could birth itself. Blood pattered the ferns like rain. Casca’s kill was cleaner, her dagger hilt-deep in the second man’s eye.

“Distractible tonight,” Casca muttered, wiping her blade on the corpse’s cloak. “Eyes forward.”

The woman's sword arm burned. Three soldiers lay at her feet, a fourth circling. Adrenaline sharpened his snarl, the stink of his fear. She feinted left; And he took the bate. Her pommel smashed his temple, and he crumpled, it was cry from the enemy that rang out like a siren. Men approached the top walls like crows perching down, silhouette arched bows wavering as they began to point in sync. The raid unfolded like a bloodied tapestry beneath the moon’s cool gaze. Griffith’s strategy had severed the enemy’s ranks with meticulousness- flanking maneuvers, feigned retreats, chaos sown in the soil beneath them like poisoned vines. Yet Griffith’s gaze strayed too often to the whirlwind of steel and fury that was her.

She fought as she always did: relentless, elegant, a storm contained in human form.

“Hold the eastern flank!” Griffith barked at Guts, who grunted in acknowledgment, his dragon-slayer hewing through armored bodies like wheat. Casca’s voice rang closely, rallying troops. Griffith’s attention snagged again on the swordswoman as she lunged into a knot of spearmen. Her armor flashed crimson in the torchlight, her movements, something he’d learn but could never surmise.

Too far. She’d pushed beyond the vanguard, chasing a retreating captain. Gloves tightened on reins.

“Judeau!” His voice sliced through the din. “Reinforce the north- now.”

The archer nodded, already losing arrows into the fray. Though, Griffith’s stallion was already pivoting, galloping towards her recklessness. A blade skimmed her side, a speckle of crimson cried from the torn hull, and something white-hot lanced through his chest. She chased pavements, hooves raining in the weather of sound as she narrowed her focus. Adrenaline was what gated her pain and suddenly a sword flashed behind her. An enemy’s head fell like a turnip as Griffith came into view.

“Retreat.” He hissed through his helmet.

A careless laugh sounded in response, “Hesitating in battle? A shock. This is getting started” She sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She suddenly lurched back avoiding a swipe of a mace. “He’s dead today. I’m not letting that go.”

Gem eyes hardened and he didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Swiftly, she was pulled up onto a horse before an axe came down to split the phantom of her that lingered in the air. Legs slip over his, chest to chest, pressed against him, alive. Her breath warmed his helmet as she looked into his eyes before she swiftly squirmed.

“You fool.” What came out from him was venom as she stilled knowing a fight between them now would get them killed.

“I can get back in the fight-“

“You’re too reckless,” He said quickly, ignoring her sharp inhale. “Corkus, hold the eastern line!” He yelled to the passing rider, his steed whipping to the flick of his wrist to take cover behind a wall. Gashed bodies were trampled as the horse darted. When bricks colored her vision, fury exploded in her.

“Stop, I can fight-” The maiden rasped, pushing him to stop the horse. By her wrist, she was pulled from his horse along with him she yelped when the expectant land on her feet was instead a haphazard stumble, and she found herself gently splayed onto the patch of grass where arrows whizzed just around the corner. She thrashed, fingers scrambling on vambrace.

A tear shrieked as he quickly balled his wrenched surcoat.

“Stop!”

He caught her wrists, pinning them with a grip as iron as his will.

“…When your head is missing out of the battle, I knew I should’ve left you behind when you were studying bark more than my orders!”

A stinging pain made her shriek only for her gaze to snap to the pulsing source of torture. A stuttered gasp found her when she saw that gash that had torn through her armor like parchment. She hadn’t even noticed in the heat of battle that a sword had nabbed her. Her eyes came down to see crimson creep on the white of the threaded border.

“You’ll bleed out by morning. Stay still.” Words died as she grew lightheaded. The iron shell over her head tinkled against his metal shoulder while he aimed on keeping as much pressure against her side. She watched while fingers tremble before they jerk to remove the rest of his cape.

“But the battle..”

“To hell with the battle,” A growl thundered as his panic began to grow when blood began to drip from the fabric. “It’s not enough. Its deeper than it looks… keep pressure. Here.” His palms press over hers to the source of the junction.

“You didn’t seem all too concerned when I had to walk back.”

Jaw gnawed underneath his falcon helmet. “Enough.”

Words cracked like a whip. He stood abruptly, scanning the tree line.

“Judeau!” He called and the archer’s silhouette flickered in the budding fire’s light. Judeau’s grasp over the wood of his bow and arrow loosened as he stumbled down quickly. “Escort her to the rear camp. If she collapses, hold onto her on the horse.”

The archer's usual levity vanished.

“Aye, Captain.” 

She held her gash tighter. His gaze traveled to hers while his lashes hid them from the moon.

“You’ll survive this. I swear it.”

Griffith whispered before his figure faded into the darkness of battle while Judeau gathered his steed to help her onto. Slumped against his back, writhing as she held pressure to her gash, the field before them looked like the 7th circle of hell. The men, their men- dying in flocks. She felt ashamed being on the horse, hearing their cries. Weary eyes glared at stars in frustration as the echoes of steel clinking grew into faint whispers.

Chapter Text

The way she shoveled in the saddle with every hoof pressing into the dirt made her gouge chafe against Griffith’s surcoat that bunched uselessly in her fingers, sodden with blood. It was a hammer swinging down to her wound. When it grew quiet, the swordswoman finally spoke, her lips growing chapped in the dry air.

“There are comrades hobbling on their last limb and I’m here on a horse, with a crucial member that’s having to take me back to camp. Pathetic.” She spat while her lips twisted in a grimace.

“You’re one of our best swordsman, I could understand wanting to be careful.” Judeau replied, with his accustomed ease to practicality. Crickets chirruped a natural rhythm that gave the façade that it was an armistice on this night. The gliding her thighs were doing while riding this horse began to grow torturous for her.

“Its not about me being the best, its about… wholistically evaluating the battle.” She murmured, “Besides, I don’t think I’m dying. No, I think this horse has a broken leg. Did you strap the saddle in right?” A grumble and she slumped against Judeau’s back in anguish. He quietly snickered.

“I commissioned this saddle for posture. Personal choice.” She hisses in exasperation, believing Griffith had chosen Judeau to take her back because his saddle was made backwards. Another form of reckoning torture and punishment.

“To hell with careful...” She sighs more to herself.

Contemplation flitted onto Judeau’s freckled face while he tilted his reins. “What made you go out there like that? By yourself, chasing down that captain? You’re usually more meticulous.”

The question startled her more than she could realize when she felt her shoulders unconsciously tense. She didn’t know the reason. It was at least elusive enough to warrant her speechless.

“I just felt this rush to keep going. I didn’t really feel that fear that keeps me back for some reason. Probably, too close to a kill I really wanted and didn’t want it to slip through my fingers.” She said.

Contemplation stirred the air, and the swordsman could sense Judeau was attempting to carefully mince his words under the guise of a concerned member. Or possibly he was truly concerned. It was hard to understand because she simply couldn’t give a damn while this pain was throbbing like a pulse to her side. She felt like she was sitting in a bowl of sweat in her armor.

“Interesting. Didn’t know if you wanted to impress Griffith. I’ve heard some of your squabbles with him and they don’t seem too pretty lately.” It was a bold assumption that earned him the sound of lips sucking at her teeth.

“I didn’t know he was even watching me until he forced me onto his horse. The bickering looks like its just stress weighing him down once and for all. This hundred-year war is a plague of many kinds.” She murmured, groaning in anguish, when the horse dipped into a small ditch.

“That man is enigma. I just thought you had a better glance of him. It’s a shame, really. Those compartments can rain down on us all if it isn’t tended to. Though, to be frank, I never see him really bicker with anyone else but you.” She jolted at his words, immediately feeling it engulf her.

“I’m a problem? Is that what you’re saying?” She asked in a deceptively calm tone.

“No, Just… I’ve never seen him bicker with anyone else before. Even enemies, I’ve seen him remain suave with in the very least.” He was right, unfortunately. And because there were no answers she only stewed in more apprehension.

How the weeds will come then trying to steal your time like vultures who were waiting for the kill all along?

She didn’t understand what that meant, but it rang in her head like a haunting phantasm. That moment was a needle incision where the deepness knows no bounds. She couldn’t form it into words without an oppressive sense of defame, a bile that chewed at her throat. It felt as though if she were to tell Judeau of what happened at the flower field, she would have to deal with speculation, doubts, explanations that felt like she was sitting on a log naked in her foretelling. It gnawed at her, but not as badly as the remorseless feeling of supposition in the air. She didn’t want that.

Not with this war.

When they had arrived back to the camp, Judeau helped her to bed, gathering what little vinegar they had left and booze to disinfect the scar. Stitches made her skin tremble as she tried to keep still, her forearm over her eyes as a means for concentrating on Judeau’s words. She had avoided talking as the vinegar bit at the edges of her stitched gash.

“Its just a flesh wound,” She scoffed as she had her eyes hidden beneath her forearm, splayed restlessly on her cot.

“You’re lucky,” Judeau muttered, tying off the thread. “Half an inch deeper, and we’d be digging your grave instead of patching your pride.”

The swordsman glared at the blood soaked bandages piled on the floor. “Lucky? I’m stuck here while they’re out there.”

“Out there’s a meat grinder tonight.” Judeau’s tone softened. He nodded to the tent flap, where the horizon pulsed orange.  “Griffith’s orders were clear. You’re no use to anyone dead.”

In the distance, voices of the band came into a hum and immediately, the swordsman’s heart picked up. One, because she was certainly going to be teased for being kicked out of the battle, two, because she would now have to deal with Griffith hovering around her as though he’s not leading them all to a kingdom. The camp buzzed with the ragged energy of survivors. Torchlight flickered over bloodied armor and hollow laughter as the Band of the Hawk trickled back-some limping, others carrying the unconscious. Casca pushed into the tent, her braid frayed and cheeks smeared with soot. Her eyes swept over the sword maiden’s bandaged torso.

“Alive, then,” she said, tossing a waterskin onto the cot. “Waste of good stitches if you ask me.”

The swordswoman bristled but bit back a retort. Casca’s version of concern was a steel on steel- crude, but honest.

Judeau rose, brushing dirt from his knees.  “All yours, Commander.”  He shot the swordswoman a wink. “Try not to reopen her. She’s pricklier than a thistle when she’s bored.”

Casca’s scoff followed him out. Silence pooled in the tent, thick with the stench of antiseptic and unsaid things. The swords woman couldn’t look at her.

“Griffith’s unharmed,” Casca said abruptly, as if reading the question coiled in the swordman’s throat. “The enemy general’s head hangs from his saddle. A gift for the king.”

“And the men?”

“Seven dead. Twelve wounded.” Casca’s fingers tightened on her sword hilt. “Including you.”

A log snapped in the brazier. Shadows leapt across the canvas walls like restless spirits.

“You’re off rotation for a week,” Casca added, turning to leave. “Griffith’s orders.”

“He thought I was going to die…” She muttered to herself, her arms crossing in frustration, “Since when does he take me off rotation?” Casca paused, her silhouette rigid against the firelight.

" Since your stupidity nearly cost us a captain.”

The swordsman finally held Casca in her gaze, she was scowling at her- it damn near seemed she was asking for an apology. The woman would’ve brushed it off it weren’t for the fact that Griffith didn’t fight her to go back to camp for what felt like a paper cut in comparison to what she’s seen in the battle. She bit back a growl just as Casca went to leave. She sat up, too fast- the pain on her side making her gasp.

“I wasn’t the one who dragged myself off of blood soaked grass, Casca. He forced me to go back for a gash that needs just vinegar!”

-But Casca was already gone within the band’s rampant chaos, leaving the swordsman to soak in a stew of frustration before she let her head fall back to the pillow. She snapped her eyes shut trying to force her body into slumber just to avoid any more humiliating rituals for the night. It was supposed to be less men that died. 7 was impressive, but not the norm for the Band of Hawk. A tinge of guilt settling in her stomach only made the time stretch longer.

Dawn came around and the camp stirred to the rhythm of hammers and curses as the smiths repaired armor. The swordsman sat propped against a wagon, watching Guts heave bodies onto a pyre. His expression never changed- not for the dead, not for the living.

“Bet you’ve got a new scar to match that scowl,” Corkus drawled, dropping onto a crate beside her. His breath reeked of ale, but his hands shook as he lit a pipe.

“Better than your face,” the woman shot back.

He barked a laugh, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Careful, girl. Another hole in your gut and Griffith’ll chain you to his tent.” Her knuckles whitened on her dagger, brows furrowed as she snapped a glare at him. Corkus’ grin faltered.

“Oi, enough.” Rickert appeared, balancing a bowl of broth. “You’re supposed to rest. Not start wars at breakfast.”

“Rest,” she muttered, glaring at the broth. “I’d rather swallow live coals.”

Rickert’s smile wavered.

“Griffith said-”

“Griffith’s not here. You don’t have to listen to everything that man says. Enough about him.” She scolds the boy as she reluctantly reaches for the bowl.

Rickert faltered, his mouth pressing in a line of conflict. Corkus relaxed as soon as the woman had put the bowl over the crate. She was fighting herself on whether to eat it. She was never hungry in the mornings. It was growing tedious being around the band for long stretches of time. Because the best friend she’s known for so long, often is hailed as some god while she simply sees him. And gives into him regardless.

“I just don’t want to get kicked off of my duties.” He said, his palms catching his hips to appear more responsible in front of her.

“He kicks people off for not listening…” The swordsman snorts while she quips her brow, “How petty.”

It was as though his phantom pressed her with every action she did in the camp. She wanted to find out further if that was the case, “Does he usually do this? Because this is the first time I’ve ever been kicked off.” She asked.

Rickert went quiet and Corkus, dismissive. “Well, I’ve never been kicked off, personally..” Corkus grumbled, scratching his head while breathing the pipe.

“Me neither. And I want to keep it that way.” Rickert said,

The swordsman held a blank expression before sighing. The broth cooled untouched as the camp’s rhythm grew louder. Hammers clanged, horses snorted, and somewhere, a lute’s broken melody tangled with Judeau’s laughter. The swordswoman stared at the steam curling from the bowl, her reflection warped in the oily surface. Rest. The word curdled in her gut. She’d never been still long enough to notice how the camp smelled- iron, pine resin, and the sweet rot of old blood. Corkus exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze following hers to the pyre.

"You’re lucky it’s just a week. Last time I saw Griffith bench someone, it was a recruit who questioned his orders mid-battle. Disappeared by dawn.” He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Course, you’re special.”

Rickert shot him a warning look. “She’s not-“

“Special?” The swordswoman cut in, her voice sharp enough to silence the clatter of a nearby blacksmith. “Is that what they call it when he decides who lives or dies based on whims?”

Corkus’ pipe stilled as well as the wind around him. Rickert stepped closer, voice low. “You shouldn’t-“

“Shouldn’t what?” She stood abruptly, ignoring the flare of pain in her side. “Question the great Griffith? The Falcon?” Her laugh was brittle. “He’s just a man. A man who-“

“A man who saved your life last night.”

The voice slipped through the camp’s noise like a blade between ribs. Griffith stood at the edge of the wagon’s shadow, dawn gilding the edges of his armor. His hair, unbound, cascaded over his pauldrons, a silver river against steel. His expression was calm, but his eyes- always his eyes, burned with something colder than winter. Corkus vanished like mist. Rickert lingered, torn, until Griffith’s flick of a glove dismissed him. The swordswoman didn’t sit. Couldn’t. Her hands trembled, so she clenched them into fists.

Griffith stepped closer, his gaze trailing the bandage peeking beneath her tunic.

“You’re angry.”

“Observant.” She retorted.

“At me.”

“At this.” She gestured to the camp, the pyre’s smoke staining the sky. “You bench me for a scratch but send Guts into a horde of pikes without blinking. What’s the difference? You’re coddling me.”

His mask cracked, a twitch at his jaw, a too-quick breath. “You think this is coddling?”

“Isn’t it?” She pressed a hand to her side, the wound throbbing in time with her pulse. “Is this something like control, Griffith?”

The word hung between them, poison tipped. Griffith’s smile went sharp.

“You’ve never been controlled. Not by me. Not by anyone.”  He reached for her, gloved fingers going for hers. She flinched. Her hand froze when she felt the press of his.  “You followed me into hell when we were children. You chose this. Chose me.”

Her breath hitched. Memory flickered with a skeletal village that held her old home, smoke clawing the sky. Griffith, barely taller than her, his hands slick with blood not his own as he helped her pull her father into a haphazardly dug in grave. Stay close, he’d said. I’ll keep you alive.

The swordsman swallowed the memory like bile. “People change.”

“Do they?”

His fingers finally fell, curling into a fist at his side.

“You still fight like you’re eight years old-all fury, no fear. Still race me at dawn. Still…” He paused, averting his gaze while confliction spread in his expression.

“…look at me like I hung the stars.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. Liar. She’d stopped looking years ago. Hadn’t she?

“You’re avoiding the question,” she whispered, keeping herself gated and frozen.

Griffith tilted his head, the dawn catching in his eyes. Blue, always so blue.

“The difference,” he said softly, “is that Guts knows where he stands with me.”

A horn shattered the moment- deep, mournful. Griffith’s hand fell. His mask slid back into place, smooth as silk.

“Rest, ” he ordered, already turning.

She watched him stride toward the sound. Around her, the camp surged back to life, but the swordswoman stood rooted, the skin on her palm still burning where he’d touched her. Guts knew where he stood because he made it obvious, she wanted to retort.

Rumors about Zodd spread through the lands. Griffith seemed to tune his attention to training as if he’s already known about the creature before it touched anyone else’s ears. Impatience felt like a nail driving itself through the swordswoman’s resolve. She wasn’t going to throw her life away, but the week was almost done. She was itching to fight, and it seemed the more she went to push the boundaries on finally getting out of her cot and to the battlefield. She kept it relatively short with Griffith, a sort of defiance for the fact that she was benched. She even tried sneaking out only for Pippin to carry her back to her cot, Griffith’s orders. Shit.

She felt useless.

She was supposed to be the best swordsman in the band, now she’s under the heels of something called protection and care. Enough with that bullshit.

Griffith’s fingers lingered on the edge of the map, his gaze slicing through the mist as the swordsman strapped her vambrace with deliberate defiance. Her hands trembled, not from pain, but from the raw need to claw back agency. The wound at her side pulsed faintly beneath fresh bandages, a stubborn reminder of Griffith’s orders.

“You’re not healed,” Griffith said. His eyes were still trained on the map, as though her presence were a minor distraction, a moth fluttering too close to his grand plans.

“And you’re not my nursemaid.” She seized a sword from the rack, testing its weight. The hilt felt foreign after days of idleness. “I’ve fought with worse.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “This isn’t a skirmish. Zodd isn’t some bandit chieftain.”

“Then why bring the whole band?” She stepped closer, her shadow mingling with his on the war table. “You need every sword. Even mine.” His eyes flicked to hers, glacial and unyielding.

“I need you alive.”

The words hung between them, sharp as a garrote. She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound. “Since when do you care so much?”

Griffith’s mask slipped, just for a heartbeat. A crack in the porcelain, a flash of something feral. Then it was gone. He unrolled the map with a snap, ink-stained fingers tracing the mountain pass where Zodd had been sighted.

“Take the rear flank. Guard the supply carts.”

“Guard the-?” Her knuckles whitened on the sword. “You’d have me babysit luggage while Guts and Casca carve through apostles?”

“Yes.” His tone brooked no argument. “Or you can stay here. Your choice.”

The camp buzzed around them, men tightening saddle straps and murmuring prayers to gods long deaf. A raspy sigh and she was grumbling in irritation.

“Need me alive but then doesn’t have me do anything of use.” She hid under her grunt before relenting. “Fine, fuck it.”

Of course, she was going to take the opportunity to leave. It was claustrophobic staying in a cot. Didn't mean she had to stay near the carts. Not while she can be useful.

Chapter Text

Rain fell in sheets, a relentless drumbeat on steel and mud. The swordsman’s fingers tightened on Viola’s reins as the supply carts groaned behind her, wheels sinking deeper into the mire with every labored rotation. It was taking longer to get to the backlines of the battle and she realized she’d been benched again.

It was a faux truth he had her follow while he knew full well by the time the end of the brigade reached battlegrounds, there would only be the aftermath of scattered bodies and smoke. Griffith’s orders rang in her skull like a taunt. As if she were some green recruit trembling at their first taste of blood. The wound at her side itched beneath her armor, an overzealous echo of his overprotectiveness. Griffith had told her to remain quiet about the prospect of Zodd waiting for them across enemy lines. At first, she believed it was because speculation brewed fear in the face of combat- a consequence that would be ultimately profligate. Though now, it appeared there was something more to conjecture than what was originally surmised.

Ahead, the distant clash of steel climaxed into a roar. They’re already engaged.

Her stomach dropped. Through the downpour, she could just make out the jagged silhouette of the fortress, a fang of black stone jutting from the mountainside. Lightning split the sky, illuminating figures swarming the battlements. Far too many for a routine skirmish.

“Move!” she barked at the cart drivers, heels digging into Viola’s flanks. The grey mare surged forward, leaving the sluggish convoy behind. Let Griffith rage later. Let him chain her to his tent. She’d carve her apology into the ribs of her enemies if it meant proving she wasn’t some fragile thing to be coddled.

Being under his orders, being under his watch, under his becking, under his call. Following that captain into what could’ve been her death felt like a gasp of fresh air because it was for her. It was for no one else, not for Griffith or the band. It wasn’t for some distant responsibility that felt that she should be doing it instead of wanting to. Battle grounds were already littered with the dead. The signs of life left were the band huddling at a choke point to a vault.

The captains were already missing as the band pushed themselves into the dungeon, their armor scraping at the jagged edges of the entrance trying to fit themselves in all at once. The roar that followed rattled their iron and will as they falter. The swordsman ignored heed.

Stench hit her first- coppery and thick, cut through with the acrid tang of charred flesh. The battlefield was a writhing mass of bodies, Hawks and enemy soldiers locked in a death dance. But at the center…

Gods.

A giant cleaved through the fray. Nine feet tall, maybe more, muscles coiled like serpents beneath scarred flesh. Not a man. Some horned thing. His eyes glowed hellfire-red through the storm, locked on a flash of silver hair.

Griffith.

Her blood turned to ice. The Falcon danced around Zodd’s strikes, his own blade a silver blur. Elegant. Precise. Each parry sent shockwaves up his arms, his boots skid stone. Guts was there, the Dragon Slayer hacking through the monster’s flank, but Zodd barely flinched. A backhand sent Guts sprawling, his armor screeching against the ground. Griffith skipped to Guts in a few strides, slinging a bloodied arm over his shoulder. A sudden swipe of Zodd's tail against Griffith's diaphram whipped him to a pillar that splintered under the impact. The maiden’s sword left its sheath with a snarl. She drove herself into chaos ignoring the frustrated calls of the band, her pulse a war drum in her ears. Let the others gawk. Let them freeze. She’d seen demons before- in the ashes of her village, in the hollows of men’s eyes when they realized their throats were already slit.

The maiden ran towards Zodd, her sword swiping for the tendons in his hoof. Warm blood scattered itself over cold stone and he stumbled back, swiping at the dueler before she dodged from the lunge and darted again for him. Relentlessly, her sword went cuffing through the heavy fur coat and flesh of the beast before his hand wrapped around the blade and flung it into the nethers of darkness. Sharp pain rattled her wrists as it snagged from the grip on the handle making her teeth grit. Claws wrapped around her damaged waist and threw her, sending her sword clattering. Like a feline, she flipped onto her feet, soles skidding on cracked ground. Biting on her side, be damned. She was some butterfly with a sword, her body skidding on the ground to miss claws swiping at a pillar, the roof breaking above with a layer of dust and debris. Griffith’s teeth bared as he glared at her through silver tresses messily splayed over his face.

“Looks like you’re a big, slow bastard, aren’t you?” She teased, flagging for Zodd’s attention with the use of her words. Cobblestone lifted into brittle crumbs as a hoof slammed into the ground, tripping her while she was beelining for her sword. She quickly slipped back onto her feet before a shadow drowned her.

“And you are a pathetic flea with teeth.” He sneered, breaths audibly sprouting from his snout.

The sword maiden smirked, feeling cozy with jeopardy before Griffith wrenched her by her armor with such strength, she yelped when she landed beside him. He silently held onto her; his eyes wide in some catatonic stare. Face wild with irritation while he held his abdomen that hid a broken rib. Though she didn’t care how livid he was. She kept her knuckles tight around her hilt, pinning a vision on Zodd’s taurus figure with a side glance. She kept herself as a shield in front of Griffith. Ready for what was to come. Staring death in the face only for that very monster to freeze in its resolve.

“You…” The apostle’s voice trembled. His eyes narrow at some point behind her, where Griffith had struggled to stand. “A cub… carry the egg of the king?”

Griffith’s face betrayed nothing. The Behelit’s eye stared, unblinking.

“Mark my words,” Zodd rose, his gaze lingering on the crimson orb. “Your path is drenched in blood. The sacrifices will be many…” With a roar that shook the mountains, he leapt- not at Griffith, but into the storm. Wings of sinew and shadow erupted from his back, carrying him skyward until he vanished in the rolling clouds.

Silence.

Griffith loosened his hold over the swordswoman’s wrist. Then, men stumbled back, crossing themselves, vomiting into bloodied, pebbled cobblestone. Casca stood rigid, her sword dangling from limp fingers before she quickly sprinted to Griffith only for his risen hand to stop her. Even Guts looked shaken, his knuckles white around the Dragon Slayer’s hilt.

Only Griffith remained untouched by the panic, some faint wash of irritation instead. His thumb stroked the Behelit once, thoughtful, before tucking it back beneath his armor. When his eyes found the swordswoman’s, they were winter lakes- beautiful, impenetrable, and fathoms deep.

“What was that?” The swordswoman breathed.

He ignored her question, pulling her by her gauntlet but grimaced at the pain shooting over his rib and leg. The bite to his words died down in favor of trying to reel himself from the shooting at his ribs. Her balance faltered trying to steady his weight.

“Hey,” She murmured bracing herself to take more of his weight while her arm braced behind him,”don’t go ignoring me now” The pain made him too exhausted to argue, leaning against her more in some retaliation but she scoffed at it. “You can bicker at me after you’re huddled in one of infirmary tents, hm?” A smile at him and he reluctantly looked at her before sighing. She took him to the very supply carts she guarded for him. Ironic really.

The cart’s wooden slats groaned under Griffith’s weight as swordswoman heaved him onto stained burlap sacks. Rainwater pooled in the hollow of his collarbone, catching the fractured light of torches as surviving Hawks staggered past. Casca’s voice cut through the din- “Medic! The captain’s bleeding through his gambeson!” -but Griffith’s gaze remained fixed on the swordswoman. His fingers brushed the Behelit beneath his armor, its surface fever warm.

“You court death like a lover,” he said, voice stripped of its usual silk. Blood speckled his lips.

The swordsman tore a strip from her cloak, pressing it to the gash on his ribs. The fabric bloomed crimson in mirror to her own when he tended to her.

“You lecture like a nun.” Her grin faltered at a guttural voice behind her. Guts limped into view with a spare clutch from the supply carts, his face a mosaic of bruises. She turned to give a sympathetic smile seeing the dented armor over his chest.

“How are you holding up?” She asked, her fingers trembling with careful resolve not to press into broken bones.

“I’m alive.” He muttered, “You did good, better insults would’ve made it great.”

The swordswoman scoffed, pulling back. “And when exactly have I heard you make a better bark in battle? You were always a better bite.”

“I survived off bite alone, you survive off of both.” He gruffed with a tilted smile.

“and being stubborn.” Griffith added.

Ah, yes- don’t forget being stubborn.

“Stubbornness keeps blades sharp,” The swordswoman shot back at Griffith, though her hands gentled as she peeled Griffith’s gambeson from the wound. Muscle and bone glistened beneath torchlight. Three ribs fractured, the skin above purpling like rotten fruit.

Guts snorted, leaning against the cart’s splintered edge. “Sharp blades snap fastest.”

“Yet here we stand.” Her retort died as Griffith’s hand closed over hers, halting the pressure on his ribs. His touch burned… always did, even through gloves gone stiff with dried blood.

“Enough,” Griffith murmured. Not to her. To himself.

A whimpering man hoisted over mercenary shoulders was lunged onto the cart, arrows stuck out of him like a wooden target. The maiden shifted her weight giving space to the writhing man, brushing against the falcon captain without realizing. Griffith’s gasp lodged in the swordsman throat like a blade. She braced him instinctively, her free arm circling his waist. For a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to her temple, silver strands mingling with hers. The scent of him drowned the stench of death. Then he stiffened and snapped to lean on the wooden plank on the cart.

“Casca.” Griffith’s voice cracked, “Status report.”

The lieutenant froze after yelling orders to hall more bandages from the supply cart, sharp tips of her short hair sprouted bulbs of rainwater. “Seventy dead. Twice that wounded.” She placed a crate down next to the maiden, her gaze resting over her and Griffith under a hidden expression.

“I see.” Griffith murmured to himself.

“Majority of it was from Zodd.” Guts replied, his dark gaze at a distant point over the marked battlefield.

Casca nodded, then another group of men barraged her with boxes of supplies for the injured. The sword maiden watched as she directed them to the wounded strewn over a ditch. Griffith recovered from the fleeting touch he had with the swordswoman. Shoulders squaring, chin lifting, the mask of the Falcon slotting into place. Only his fingers betrayed him, tracing the Behelit’s grooves in a rhythm too frantic for calculation.

And you court kingdoms like a penitent, she thought , kneeling at ambition’s altar.

Guts limped after Casca, following the commotion by its coattails. Alone now, but for rain casting the band’s cries in a veil of pelting. Griffith’s gaze flickered to her.

“You shouldn’t have followed.” He murmured.

“You shouldn’t have fallen.” She retorted.

Thunder growled between them. His glove brushed her bandaged side, feather-light. “Does it pain you?”

“Only when you’re-”

Near.

“-being insufferable.” She continued.

His thumb grazed the linen, tracing the wound beneath. A general’s touch assessing troop readiness. A touch remembering shared bedrolls and stolen apples when they were both young.

“Zodd’s words…” the swordswoman hesitated, watching the Behelit drink the storm’s light. “Sacrifices. What did he mean?”

Griffith’s face closed like a gate.

“Poetry for madmen.”

Liar.

But his hand lingered on her bandage, and for once, she let the lie stand. Too confused to go after it, his touch meddling with her logic. She stirred away from his touch when it drilled itself far enough to have her only thoughts be about his fingers tracing over her side. Three days thawed by. There was a celebration for them when they headed back to Midland, the king allowed them to stay nearby after their victory. It was a noble lodge that seemed like a few paces from Windham. Casca was brooding for the last three days after the battle about Guts throwing himself out to Zodd. The swordswoman instead saw something different under the veneer of time.

The night of celebration occurred outside. Midland’s festival lanterns bobbed like drunken fireflies above the marketplace, their golden light smearing the cobblestones where ale pooled between cracks. The Band of the Hawk sprawled across merchant stalls repurposed as banquet tables, their laughter sharpened by relief. Judeau juggled stolen apples for a cluster of giggling laundresses. Pippin sat statue-still as children clambered over his shoulders to snatch ribbons strung from the gallows. Even Casca had shed her armor, her rare smile glinting as she traded war stories with knights whose gazes lingered too long.

The swordsman leaned against a splintered pillory, watching.

And Griffith stood at the heart of it all, of course.

The moonlight caught the argent threads embroidering his borrowed doublet- Midland’s colors, not the Hawk’s. Princess Charlotte’s gloved hand rested on his forearm, her laughter trilling like a songbird’s as he bent to murmur in her ear. The crutch propped under his other arm and a bruised cheek from Julius’ fist should’ve made him look diminished. Instead, it lent him the air of a wounded prince from ballads, noble even in ruin.

He met her three hours ago, the swordwoman thought, crunching a honeyed almond between her teeth. Three hours, and already she’s blushing.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” Guts huffed beside her reeking of black powder and resentment. His own crutch bore toothmarks.

“The way they’re all fawning?” She nodded to where Rickert tripped over himself refilling Griffith’s wine. “Or the fact we’re celebrating in a graveyard?”

“The way you’re pretending not to watch.” Fireworks exploded overhead, painting Guts’ scars violet and gold. The swordswoman studied the princess instead-the way Charlotte’s pearl-stitched hood slipped to reveal brunette hair, how her doe eyes widened at Griffith’s every word. A perfect porcelain doll.

“He needs her,” The swordswoman said flatly.

“He needs a crown.” Another burst of fireworks and this time, Griffith glanced up- not at the sky, but at the swordswoman. His eyes held hers as he raised Charlotte’s hand to his lips. The almond snapped between the swordswoman’s molars.

Guts snorted, “Casca used to look at me like that when Griffith and I would train.”

“Like what?”

“Like she wanted to carve my lungs out through my ribs.” He jabbed his crutch at Charlotte. “We both got punched today. Looking at you made me realize why."

It came out like a rant from him than intended. For a heartbeat, the swordswoman let herself imagine crossing the square- spinning under paper lanterns until the world blurred. Until her problems melted under celebration.

“Why are you here, Guts? Shouldn’t you be brooding by the ale casks?”

“Waiting for him to stop playing dress-up.” As if summoned, Griffith disentangled himself from Charlotte with a courtier’s grace. The swordswoman tracked his progress- the subtle hitch in his step, the way his free hand brushed sword pommels as passing soldiers bowed.

“You could leave,” Guts said suddenly.

“What?”

“The band. The wars. All of it. You look like you want to.” His jaw worked.

She laughed, “And do what? Take up embroidery?”

“Live.”

The word hung between them, fragile as a soap bubble. Her fingers found the scar beneath her tunic-raised flesh mirroring Griffith’s wound. I need you alive, he’d said in the cart. Not I need you. Never that.

A drunk stumbled into their shadows, vomiting saffron stew. When the swordsman looked away from him, Griffith was gone.

“Aren’t I already?” She murmured as her eyes flicked around for Griffith only to give up when Guts lingered his observation too long.

“No- You act like you’re being held back.” He said bluntly and it was enough to hold her breath.

Thoughts churned while she processed his words. Why? This was the spearhead of living, wasn’t it? She’s been stifled by Griffith but that never stopped her. There were curfews she fought against, orders that she stomped on. Her frustration spiked at a raw feeling that felt too close to comfort.

“When did you become so insightful? Thought you were always some dumb brute and here you are..?” The swordswoman scoffed.

“I'm looking at something for what it is.”

“Right, like you aren’t blind?” She retorted.

“About what?” He grumbled with irritation.

“About the shit that’s in front of you.” She said. He looked at her for sometime before turning his gaze away to contemplate. After a time of silence, the swordswoman gave up the conversation- turning to walk away.

The swordswoman retreated to her inn early. The inn’s wooden stairs creaked under the swordswoman’s boots as she climbed to her room, the raucous laughter from the celebration below fading with each step. Her chamber was sparse-a narrow bed, a warped desk, a single candle flickering in a tin dish. Moonlight spilled through a cracked shutter, painting silver stripes over the floorboards. She unbuckled her sword, letting it clatter onto the bed, and slumped into the chair by the desk. The scar at her side ached, a dull throb that mirrored the restless churn in her chest.

Three hours, she thought bitterly. Three hours with that simpering princess.

It was enough to make her toil through the night unable to find any sleep. The solace of the room being a rumination pit more than anything. Her throat grew pained and dry at the thought of it. Seeing this happening more than once, and not just that- but for years. A knock pushed her from her thoughts. She stilled. Those were too soft for Guts, too deliberate for Judeau.

“It’s open,” she answered, her voice stripped of warmth.

The door creaked open, and there he stood- Griffith, haloed by the dim corridor light. He’d discarded his Midland doublet, his linen shirt undone at the throat, sleeves pushed carelessly above lean forearms. Pearly hair, unbound. The flickering candlelight carved shadows into the bruise mottling his jawline, violets and blues blooming beneath pale skin. A crutch leaned against his side.

“You should be in bed,” she said, ignoring the twinge in her chest.

“And you should be drinking with the others.” His tone was light, but his gaze lingered on the dagger sheathed at her hip. The door clicked shut, sealing them in silence.

“Yet here we are,” she replied, matching his calm.

“Here we are.” His smile was a ghost, fleeting as the candle’s shuddering flame. He stepped forward, the crutch thudding dully against the floorboards. Each labored breath, each hitch in his stride, pricked at her resolve. Her hands tensed- foolish impulse, before she forced them still, nails biting into her palms.

“What do you want, Griffith?”

“Conversation.”

The chair scraped backward as he dragged it closer, the sound grating like a blade unsheathed. She didn’t blink, didn’t shift, though her fingers drifted to the dagger’s hilt. The candlelight pooled in the hollow of his throat, his shirt gaping to reveal collarbones angled enough to draw blood. His hair, always so meticulously tied back these days, fell loose- a cascade of mercury, unbound and unguarded.

He studied her, the silence thickening. Then, softer: “You used to braid it for me.”

A strand of silver slid through his fingers, deliberate, a provocation dressed in nostalgia. Her breath caught. Eleven years old, his small frame trembling after the ambush. Her hands, stained with dirt and ash, weaving his hair into a shaky plait as he whispered, “Don’t tell the others.”

“We’re not children anymore,” she said, ice coating the words.

“No.” His gaze held hers. “But it still comforts me.”

The festival’s distant laughter seeped through the floorboards, discordant against the tension thickening the air.

“Ask Charlotte, then.” The words tasted bitter, and an annoyed snort escaped her before she could stifle it.

Griffith’s brow arched, molten mercury in the candlelight. His smile sharpened, wolfish.  “Jealous, are you?”

Annihilation licked up her spine. She dragged her tongue across her teeth, jaw clenched tight enough to splinter bone. “No,” she lied. “I’m tired.”

“Any other night and you would be dancing with your sword, especially after a victory. After you protected me.” Jaw tremored while she held her glare. He was going to do this until she rattles in herself, desperately holding on not to claw at him.

“Sit,” she muttered, nodding to the desk chair. “Before you collapse and blame me for it.”

He obeyed, lowering himself into the seat with a grace that belied his injuries. She looked at herself stood behind him, her reflection flickering in the warped mirror propped on the desk. His hair spilled over the back of the chair like molten silver, the ends brushing her wrists as she gathered it into sections.

“You’ve gotten better at this,” he murmured as her fingers began their work. “At what? Braiding? Playing nursemaid?”

“At hiding what you want.”

Hands stilled in silver tresses while her eyes narrow, “and what is it you think I want?”

A head tilt and it was just enough for his temple to graze her forearm.

“To be seen.”

The air fell over her like a blanket. Why was he here, why was he persistent in fucking with her now? His eyes held a strange promise in his glare while his lips whispered in the ear of the princess earlier. And it salted the wound on her side.

“This is the last braid and then I’m done.” She said, ignoring his statement entirely. A hum and he tilted his head again showing the pale nape that peeked between curtained silver tresses.

The laughter that trickled in the inn like rain stopped and she became too aware of the silence.

“You know, this pleases me.”  Griffith said like velvet. “hmm… Do you like pleasing me..?” 

Fingers stiffened while her mind went over his words over again. She hung over the question. Do you like pleasing me? It wasn't an inquiry she could readily parse, not when her fingers were tangled in the silver silk of his hair, not when his warmth was beneath her palms. Pleasing Griffith… it was a concept woven into the very fabric of her being. From childhood spars to battlefield strategies, her actions had always, in some way, been towards him. But liking it? The braid in her palm lost its tension. He subtly shifted his posture, a stillness that suggested he was waiting for her answer. The silence stretched for so long she wondered if she was doomed by it. The only solace was punctuated by the soft crackle of the candle flame and the distant, muffled music from the marketplace.

“What kind of question is that, Griffith?” Her voice a low rasp that barely disturbed the quiet. She resumed braiding, her movements now more deliberate, almost mechanical. It was easier to focus on the physical task than to unravel the knot of implications in his words.

“A simple one,” he replied in some hypnotic flavor.

“Well, don’t ask me it.” She rustled.

“Why?”

his coquettish attitude nearly sent her into a spiral. Fingers trembled in his hair as she focused on tethering the last weave.

“You know why, don’t act coy with me.” The swordswoman abruptly parted away from him by the time her hands left him. “I’m done, I suggest you go back.”

Griffith remained seated, his back to her, a statue carved from the tension in the air, the very one that was mauling her now. The finished braid lay against his spine, a silver river against pale linen. The silence stretched with unspoken things.

"Go back?" he finally questioned. "Go back to what, exactly? To the charade? To the princess with her hopeful eyes and her father's weighty expectations?"

He turned then, slowly, deliberately. The candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face, the bruised cheek, the unsettling intensity of his gaze. It was the look he wore on the battlefield, the one that could freeze a charging enemy in their tracks. Except now, it was directed at her. Pinning her like a butterfly taxidermy.

"You think I enjoy that, don't you?" he asked, the question not a question at all. "The fawning, the… performance. You think I relish playing the role of the charming knight to become prince, the savior of Midland?"

The swordswoman crossed her arms, her stance defensive. "It's what you want, isn't it? Why do it if you don’t enjoy it?” She scoffed.

"It's what I need," Griffith corrected. “A kingdom isn't won with smiles and stolen kisses. There is sacrifice- sometimes.." he paused, hairs on her arm prickling to his words, "the sacrifice is… comfort."

The blanket of strain over her became heavy and suffocating. Comfort. The very thing she'd denied him, denied herself, for years. The shared warmth of a winter tent, the whispered stories in the dark, the easy camaraderie that had tattered into this… this vigorous, unspoken battle.

"So, what?" she challenged, her voice tight. "You're sacrificing my comfort now? Is that it? Benching me, coddling me, doing this?”

Griffith rose from the chair, pulling himself onto his crutch. The movement slow like a predator uncoiling. He closed the distance between them, the warm glow flickering over his features, making him seem so exquisite that it ached her to look. He stopped just a breath away, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the lingering scent of something indefinably him. Candlelight danced in his eyes, turning them into molten pools of sapphire.

"Your comfort?"  his voice edged with something that made her skin prickle. "No, I'm sacrificing mine."

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed the confusion swirling within her.

"What... what does that even mean?" she stammered, the defiance in her voice wavering. There was slivers of vulnerability exposed from him and it mirrored the turmoil she felt inside. It was a look she hadn't seen since they were children, huddled together against the cold and the darkness, sharing stories and dreams.

"It means, that every calculated smile, every strategic touch, every moment spent playing the courtier... it's a blade twisting in my gut."

Lips parted to say anything that would put distance between them, shaken when the tips of his fingers slip against her cheek. Stop, stop this. Her jaw snapped away from his touch and his brow furrowed as if burned. He lowered his hand granting her some reprieve.

“You’re still scared of me after the field...” It was a matter of fact that slipped from his lips, gaze casted down in a thoughtful gesture before he sighed.

There was nothing to say. Anything would be a lie. The sound of his crutch raddled against floorboards as his shoulders brushed hers.

“The band is sparring tomorrow; I look forward to you fighting even while your side aches.”

He said behind her. Instead, she focused on flames dancing on a wick while the door whined open and then clicked shut.

Chapter Text

Soot coated her tongue as she coughed, the bitter remnants of last night’s fire staining her lungs. Above, dawn clawed through the horizon, bleeding orange and pink into the sky. Her eyes fluttered open- a sliver of blurred vision before pain seized her, sharp and unrelenting. It coiled in her throat, twisted through her ribs, as if her body had been wrung dry. Ghostly tendrils of smoke still curled in the air, remnants of the pyre that had swallowed her home.

Yet she wasn’t cold. A weight draped over her shoulders: a torn cloak, frayed but stubbornly warm. She stirred, muscles screaming, only to freeze at a voice smooth as river stones.

“Don’t move.” The command was gentle, almost soothing. For a heartbeat, she obeyed- until agony lanced through her side. A cry tore from her lips, raw and guttural. Above her, blue eyes glinted like frost under moonlight as a silver-haired boy tightened a bandage around her torso.

“The blade was buried deep,”  he said, fingers steady despite her shuddering. “You were unconscious. It gave me time.”

Her gaze latched onto his hair, a cascade of what looked like rolling clouds, vivid against the charred landscape. Familiar, somehow. Memory eluded her, drowned beneath the throbbing in her skull. She tried to speak, but he cut through her haze.

“You’re the only one left alive.” His voice softened as he surveyed the ruins.

Alive. The word snapped her awake. She lurched upright, ignoring the fire in her veins.

“Father-?” The boy’s hands gripped her uninjured shoulder, anchoring her.

“You’ll reopen your wounds.” She barely heard him. Her eyes darted past him, past the smoldering debris, to the figure slumped near the ashes. Unmoving. Unblinking.

“No-!” 

The plea dissolved into a whimper as she staggered forward. Nails digging grooves into the earth as she crawled to grasp at straws of whatever life she could find. Her father lay as he had yesterday, hand outstretched toward the splintered remains of his sword. A dark gash marred his temple, dried blood painting his neck in rust. She collapsed beside him, trembling fingers hovering over his face. To touch him would make it real.

Instead, she screamed. A broken, keening sound that ripped through the dawn. The boy didn’t interrupt. He watched, silent as a shadow, while she clawed at soot ground, wept until her voice frayed to whispers. Time blurred- a nightmare painted in ash and crimson. When her sobs finally choked into hiccups, he spoke again.

“Bandits?” She didn’t answer. Grief had hollowed her and it left her a shell staring at the sky.

He tilted his head, studying the carnage. “Strange. All the attackers lie dead.” He paused, “Your blade was bloodied when I found you.”

Her breath hitched. Bloodied. Images flickered- a flash of steel, screams that weren’t her father’s, but slipped away like smoke.

“Are you content to die here?” he pressed. Rage flared, sudden and white-hot. She whirled on him with eyes nearly blood shot.

“He’s gone! What else matters?”

The boy didn’t flinch- his clothes hung in tatters, yet an eerie poise clung to him, as though the devastation were a puzzle to solve.

“Your mother?” he asked. The question punctured her fury.

“I… don’t remember her.”

A beat passed. His gaze sharpened- too discerning, too old for his youth.

“So you’re alone?”

“Stop.” Her voice cracked. Fresh tears streaked her cheeks. “Just… stop.”

He turned to her father, bending to close the man’s clouded eyes with unsettling grace. She moved on instinct, snatching her sword from the dirt and pressing its tip to his throat.

“Don't touch him!”

The boy glanced at the blade with some strange peace in his eyes,

“Did you kill them?”

The steel trembled in her grip.

“I failed,”  she rasped. “I couldn’t save him-” A sob throttled her words. Griffith rose, retrieving the discarded cloak and draping it over her quaking shoulders. His touch lingered, warm against the dawn’s chill.

“Did you?” He knelt beside her, voice a whisper. “That sword tells a different story.”

She jolted awake, a gasp clawing its way out of her throat. Her spine arched like a drawn bowstring, muscles trembling as if the nightmare still clung to her skin. Pale dawn light seeped through the cracks in the room, illuminating the chair skewed ajar that Griffith had abandoned last night. For a breath, she let the silence smother her. Then the ache returned, sharper than any blade. A dream.

It infuriated her, how her mind taunted her with ghosts. As if rehearsing the past could resurrect what she’d lost- the warmth of her father’s calloused hands, the brittle hope of love that had dissolved like sand between her fingers. Even now, the weight of a sword hilt in her palm dragged her back to when she was small and yielding to the commands of her father. It always did.

She remembered it vividly: the splintered oak stump where she’d perched as a child, knees scabbed and eyes wide, watching her father’s blade carve arcs through the air. They called him a master. Kael the great. Midland’s lords had paid in silver for his craftsmanship, never knowing the truth, that his artistry was forged in chains. A slave with a gilded title, hammering swords for the kingdom that had razed his village. Their home had been a carcass long before Tudor’s raiders finished it, bones picked clean by vultures in armor. Midland had wrung her dry of nearly everything but the flesh over her bones. The king ignorant of the master swordsman's child, just enough to allow her to creep into the underbelly, acting as a distant knight who appeared to be clamoring for fame rather than the avengment of her father. Griffith had promised his death if she were to help him become king. She should never forget that.

And yet, she was destined to follow this path. A fallen figure only led to another one for her to repeat her cycles with in some strange wheel of fortune she could never step off of. Or in the very least, never felt comfortable with leaving.

She clenched her fists, the memory souring. If not for the wars, the contracts, the lies… He’d still be here. Not a legend. Not a name whispered in taverns. Just her father.

But "if" was a poison.

Her neck burned beneath the midday sun, its glare smothering the plains like a branding iron. Two months had scabbed over the wound at her side, leaving a crescent-shaped scar, a pale mimicry of the moon that watched her bleed that night. Griffith’s and Gut’s bones had knit. And she? She’d carved her healing into calluses, training until her palms split and her sword hilt wore grooves as deep as Midland’s riverbeds.

The king’s “game” was a farce. Foxes released into the brush for the Hawks to chase like hounds. Viola snorted beneath her, restless, as Corkus and Guts lunged into the fray. But she waited and watched. Foxes were clever, but hunger made them reckless.

A flicker of rust-red in the grass.

She spurred Viola forward, reins snapping. The fox bolted, a blur of desperation. Her world narrowed. Hoofbeats syncing with her pulse, wind sharpening the stink of sweat and damp earth. She leaned low, her body a bow curving over Viola’s flank. One gloved hand snatched the fox’s scruff; the other drove her dagger into its throat.

Blood spattered the grass.

“I believe I won this round.” She hoisted the limp creature aloft, its fur glistening like copper in the sun. Her smirk was a challenge.

Corkus spat, his face ruddy with frustration.

“Lucky swipe.”

Guts didn’t glance back, already he was crashing deeper into the thicket, his sword raised. A man who hunted not for trophies, but for the kill’s raw catharsis. S he stroked Viola’s neck, her triumph souring as she studied the fox. Its teeth were bared, eyes still bright with feral defiance. Almost familiar. She scoffed at Guts’ irritated groan, then turned to present her gambit to the king, whose distant silhouette tilted in vague acknowledgment. These months had honed her in the politics of ambition- not the hollow pageantry of Midland itself. Her loyalty still clung, thornlike, to the ghost of her father. But Griffith? Lately, his presence left her skin prickling as if she’d been pressed against jagged stone. Something writhed in the marrow of her, flesh deeper than jealousy, a shadow she couldn’t claw into light.

The band’s dynamics gnawed at her. Guts absorbed the world without a word to give, his intuition unnervingly precise- a trait she grudgingly admired but couldn’t sit long without feeling studied. Casca’s eyes mirrored back a future she feared: a relic of purpose, polished and unyielding... some supposed marrying maiden left to be a step down from the “wife”. And Rickert… The boy’s deference to Griffith bordered on devotion. A single misstep in his presence, a breath of dissent, and Griffith would exile her to scouring winds and rotten earth, punishing her under the guise of duty. He always heard. Always knew. Griffiths fucking orders. She wondered if he sensed it too- that nameless thing buried within her, an ache that sharpened whenever his gaze lingered. A hunger with teeth that gnawed at her ribs from the inside.

The whistle pierced the autumn air, weaving between birdsong. Through dappled sunlight beneath ancient, gnarled oaks, Griffith held court with the princess. Charlotte watched, entranced, as he pressed a golden leaf between his fingers, coaxing music from something so fragile. The swordswoman's eyes lingered only briefly before catching Casca's defiant glare burning into the pastoral scene. A knowing snort escaped her. That won't be me, she vowed silently. I won't be simpering for his affections, plucked and played like some court lute whenever he deigns to notice. Let him have whatever he wants; she wouldn't stand in his way. She turned her attention to the royal guards across the field, watching their arrows arc against the sky like falling stars, disappearing into the underbrush without purpose.

"Caught one, aye?" Judeau appeared at her side, panting as though he'd attempted her riding technique and failed spectacularly.

She lifted her prize, a bedraggled fox, by the scruff, her smile flashing briefly before vanishing like a coin tossed into deep water. "Easy enough."

Judeau's freckled face creased into a familiar smirk, eyes dancing with mischief. "You practically hung off your horse sideways without falling. A minor miracle."

"A technique worth mastering," she countered, eyeing his empty hands. "Bowe and arrow not serving you today?"

"Had to surrender my arrows to those guards after they emptied their quivers into the forest. Seems they've been hunting trees rather than foxes."

A genuine laugh escaped her, a rare sound these days, and for a moment, she wondered if he was deliberately trying to distract her from Griffith's display with the princess. Or perhaps the turbulent waters beneath her carefully maintained veneer were playing tricks on her judgment.

"Griffth!"

Guts' roar shattered the forest peace, sending birds erupting from branches in panicked clouds. The swordswoman's body responded before her mind could intervene, hand instinctively reaching for her blade as Viola burst through the undergrowth. The thick curtain of leaves parted, and the scene framed in jagged green edges stole her breath. Water pooled around Griffith's waist, an arrow jutting from his chest. The Band of the Hawk converged. The swordswoman was the last to reach him, forcing her way through the press of bodies. Casca was already there, urging him to remove his armor while Guts towered over Charlotte, nearly squeezing answers from the whimpering princess. Griffith's gaze traveled across the appalled faces until it found hers. Something unreadable flickered in those blue depths before he turned to address Casca's concern.

"Don't get so worked up." The press of his armored palm against Casca's bronze cheek sent leather biting into the swordswoman's clenched fist. It felt like a strange rebuke for not being first at his side, for failing some test of loyalty she hadn't known she was taking.

It was a pantomime of devotion around him: Casca's trembling hands, Rickert's blanched face, even Judeau's forced levity... all orbiting Griffith as he yanked the arrow free with unsettling calm. Yet no blood followed the shaft's withdrawal from his chest plate. He examined the arrow with detached curiosity, as if it were merely a broken quill.

"Poison, I'd say-" he murmured, voice untouched by fear.

Griffith's fingers slid into the rent in his armor, withdrawing the behelit- its maroon shell unmarred, nestled precisely where his heart should have been pierced. The swordswoman froze, her blade half-drawn, suddenly certain the relic's sealed eyelids might snap open. A primal dread pooled in her gut, the same instinct that had coiled within her when Tudor raiders had torched her father's forge. This was no mere shield. This was the jagged egg from a blind withered woman that was a totem whispered to bind souls to something beyond the physical.

"This protected me,"  Griffith breathed, wonder softening his voice. A disbelieving scoff escaped her. The behelit's surface gleamed with unnatural luster, drinking the sunlight as if famished. Around them, the Band's collective exhale rippled like wind through grass.

"Divine intervention," Rickert whispered.

"Devil's luck," Corkus countered, spitting into the pond.

The swordswoman didn't blink. Her gaze remained locked on Griffith as he rose, water sluicing off his silvered armor like liquid moonlight. Only when his ribs expanded, unmarred beneath the gleaming metal, did she finally sheathe her blade. The click of the guard echoed like a judgment in the sudden hush. This was beyond a parlor trick, beyond luck. Her fingers lingered on the hilt, trembling faintly as the reality settled... he should be dead.

"As long as you're alright," she said, the words escaping before she could cage them, soft as a breath yet sharp in her own ears. Around them, chaos swelled. Gasps, shouts, the splash of frantic footsteps, but Griffith turned as though her voice had hooked him by the ribs.

"Yes,"  he replied, and the way he shaped her name felt like a thumb pressed to her pulse. "I'm alright. Were you worried?"

The world narrowed to a pinpoint. Charlotte's shrill cries, Casca's barked orders, even the chill of pond water dripping from his silver hair. All of it dimmed. For a heartbeat, there was only his eyes, fathomless and calculating, and the dangerous warmth of his attention. To be seen. To be chosen. The thought hissed through her like a blade drawn too fast. She forced her gaze downward, studying the mud-streaked grass until Casca and Charlotte hauled him to his feet, until the Band's clamor swallowed him whole.

A gruff call of her name snapped her attention to Guts, his face carved with fury.

"You'll be patrolling with the others," he growled. "They're still out there, probably more than one."

She paused, sifting his words from the echo of Griffith's that still pressed against her thoughts. The weight of that blue gaze felt so heavy she could barely hear Guts over the blood rushing in her ears. "Aye," she breathed, turning abruptly to retrieve Viola. But one final glance confirmed what she already knew- those sapphire eyes remained fixed on her retreat.

The night came not as darkness but as reprieve. The brewery's weathered walls contained a universe of clamor and light, the disparate worlds of victory and solitude separated only by the width of an oak table. Amber light from iron-wrought lanterns caught in pools of spilled ale, turning the tavern floor into a constellation of liquid stars that trembled with each thunderous laugh. The swordswoman sat among them but not with them. Her methodical consumption with a knife and fork stood in stark defiance to the joyous entropy around her. Revelry seemed to break against her stillness like waves upon a stone sentinel. Firelight that transformed faces into gold around her fell cold across her features, as though her skin refused the comfort of its warmth.

Her eyes, fixed on some distant point beyond the smoke-hazed rafters.]The bench groaned as Corkus slammed his fifth tankard down, sending a splash of ale upward that caught the lantern light like amber jewels. His voice had grown slurred proportionally to each sip of ale.

"You should've seen me back there!" His eyes widened with the zeal of prophecy, scarred hands carving visions in the air.

"Those Tudor bastards thought they had the high ground until I flanked them through the marsh. One swing" 

he demonstrated with a ferocity that nearly toppled his bench-mates

"and their standard-bearer went down like a felled oak!"

The newest Hawks- boys whose faces bore no scars of seasons, who still polished their swords nightly and penned letters home in trembling script- had erupted in thunderous applause. They leaned toward Corkus like saplings starved for light, aching to siphon even a drop of the glory that might prophesy their own. Across the table, Judeau’s hands danced without pause. His dagger that he convinced the bar keeper to let him have- spun in serpentine arcs, its hypnotic whirl masking the cold calculus behind his drowsy gaze.

Rickert sidled closer to the swordswoman. The boy clutched his watered wine like a sacred relic, all solemn ceremony and borrowed bravado, unaware how his guileless fervor pierced the tavern’s fog of jaded whispers

"Remember that parry technique you showed me last summer?" Rickert's voice cracked midway, "When you said to feel the weight transfer before the blade even moves?" Enthusiasm propelled his words faster than sense could arrange them. "I used it today when Pippin was demonstrating counters. Even he couldn't break through my guard… he actually smiled! Well, I think it was a smile, hard to say with Pippin, but his eyes did that thing where they went-"

He narrowed his eyes in attempt to act out the gesture. The swordswoman's scoff might have been mistaken as mocking by those who didn't know to listen to the ghost of affection haunting its edges. For a moment, something almost forgotten softened the iron in her gaze, the same look a master craftsman gives to unfinished work showing unexpected promise.

"That's the way, kid." Her voice emerged rough from disuse, "Keep at it like that, and soon enough you'll be in my league."

The sparse praise, barely a handful of words, transformed Rickert's face. He leaned forward, wine forgotten, radiating the intensity of youth that believes in heroes without reservation.

"I've been practicing every day!"  He confessed, the words tumbling out as though they'd been dammed behind his teeth. "Even when we march, I go through the forms you showed me. Gaston said I looked like I was having fits, but I told him it's how you taught me to keep the movements in my bones."

Behind them, the tavern door groaned open, admitting a gust of night air that sent lanterns swinging. The swordswoman's spine straightened as though pulled by invisible strings, her hand dropping instinctively to where her sword would hang had she not surrendered it to the tavern-keep upon entry.  Guts had stood at the top as if he were some outlaw unfit for the law of the land. The conversation of the band had bobbed and weaved around his arrival.

"Where was he?" Casca's whisper cut through the veil of murmured speculation.

His cloak hung in ragged testimony to violence, not merely torn but violated, as though he'd walked through a hurricane of blades. His face was eerily vacant, a fortress emptied of all but the effort of containing whatever horrors the darkness had revealed to him. Only his eyes betrayed life, feral and seeking as they cut through the smoke-hazed room to lock with the swordswoman's across the crowded space. Rickert's animated chatter withered on his lips, smile collapsed. Every Hawk tensed in animal response- half-risen from benches, hands twitching toward absent weapons stored by the parlor entrance. A pack suddenly alert to blood on the wind.

"Guts?" Judeau broke the silence, the name falling into stillness like a stone into dark water.

Chapter Text

The swordswoman set her utensils down with theatrical calm. a performance that deceived no one, while Casca surged to her feet. The bench scraped backward with a sound like bones breaking beneath a torturer's attentions. She pushed through the stunned Hawks with the authority of command, her footfalls striking the floorboards like measured heartbeats in the suddenly airless room.

"What happened?" Casca's voice dropped to a dangerous hiss that slithered beneath the collective held breath of the tavern. Guts remained motionless, something dark pooling beneath his boots in widening coronation. Not water. Something thicker, more final. When he finally spoke, his voice emerged as though scraped over gravel, hollowed and raw, as if whatever midnight confession he'd witnessed had flayed something essential from his throat. "Where is he?"

The question carried across the room with unnatural clarity, piercing the space between them to find the swordswoman among the Hawks, bypassing Casca entirely despite her physical proximity.

"At Charlotte's dinner party, why?" The swordswoman answered, rising from her seat with a measured caution

Something traversed Guts' face then a shadow deeper than concern, darker than dread. His eyes flickered briefly to the watching Hawks. In that wordless exchange, the swordswoman felt knowledge pass between them, a burden so ponderous it might fracture the strongest spine.

"I need to speak with him," he stated flatly while refusing elaboration as the crimson pool beneath his feet widened, not mere splatter but saturation, as though he'd waded through some baptismal lake of blood. "Alone,"

Guts was already turning toward the door, his colossal sword leaving a trail of viscous darkness across the ancient floor long stained with the lesser currencies of spilled ale and forgotten oaths.

Casca's face hardened to flint, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth as she snatched her cloak from a rusted hook without seeking permission. Her movements contained no hesitation, only the fluid economy of one who had long ago made darkness her familiar.

"Stay here," she commanded the Hawks with the unassailable authority of Griffith's second, her voice permitting no challenge. When the wooden door slammed shut behind them, speculation erupted like flame touching oil. Whispers multiplied, hungry and fearful, around the tavern's hearth. Rickert looked between the older Hawks with eyes wide as new moons, sensing the tectonic shift beneath the surface of their world. He spoke the swordswoman's name, tentative as a prayer whispered in a forgotten temple, making her reluctantly raise her gaze to meet his. The boy's eyes were still untarnished by the years that had polished all softness from the rest of them and they sought answers she was not certain she possessed.

"Is the Band in danger?" The question hung suspended in the amber light, a mote caught between breaths. Across the room, Pippin moved with the deliberate grace that belied his massive frame, positioning himself protectively near the younger members

"I'm not sure," she said, settling back onto the bench with deliberate slowness, as though sudden movements might shatter some invisible equilibrium. Each word emerged precisely chosen, weighed like gold on a merchant's scale. "I've kept my distance from Griffith lately."

Judeau studied her profile with eyes that calculated distance, trajectory, intent. The same eyes that never missed when steel left his fingers.

"That's unusual," Judeau pitched his voice for her ears alone as the other Hawks resumed their drinking with forced gaiety, their laughter too sharp, too brittle, as if volume might somehow drown the approaching footsteps of fate. "Whatever Guts was involved in tonight, it wasn't ordinary violence,"  Judeau continued softly, "Not even for him."

Across the scarred oak table, Corkus drained another tankard, his earlier boisterous mood curdling into something brittle and sharp edge. His glance kept returning to the door where Guts and Casca had vanished, each look carrying more resentment than the last, as though the portal itself had somehow betrayed him.

"Means trouble for all of us," he muttered, loud enough to carry beyond his immediate circle, "not just the White Hawk."

Rickert slid closer on the bench, seeking reassurance from the woman who'd outlasted nearly all others in the Band. His youth made him dangerous in ways swords never could, too earnest to dissemble, too observant to easily mislead, too innocent to recognize the precipice they balanced upon. "Is this why you've been training alone more?"

he asked with unvarnished directness, innocently exposing her changed behavior to any with ears to hear. What had grown between them was something she'd thought would provide excuse enough... but suddenly it felt like a lie she'd been telling herself through countless dawns spent with only her blade for company.

"I didn't want to get in the way of anything," she said, the half truth sticking in her throat, "My mission is to take back my father's honor."

But even as the words left her lips, she recognized the hollowness of this childhood oath, long since desiccated in the mire of what the Band of the Hawk had become. She had evolved beyond that child's vow, just as she'd evolved beyond blind loyalty to the White Hawk's dreams of empire. She realized, with sudden clarity, she was no different than the average mercenary. She was a doll outgrown and set aside, still performing the motions of devotion after the heart had fled.

"Your father would be proud of what you've accomplished with the Hawks,"Though, Judeau's gaze penetrated the armor of her half-truths with the precision of a master surgeon who knows exactly where the vital organs lie."We're all part of something greater now,"

Rickert added with the fervent conviction only possible in those who haven't yet watched dreams corrode beneath the acid rain of reality. He gestured to the Hawk emblems they all wore, bright against dark leather like stars against night sky. "Griffith is going to change everything for Midland... for all of us."

The Hawks nearby raised their tankards in silent affirmation, their faith in their silver-haired leader unshaken despite the ominous arrival of their blood-soaked champion minutes earlier. Their devotion remained intact, pristine as virgin snow that hasn't yet felt the stain of crimson truth.

Corkus snorted wetly into his ale, froth clinging to the jagged corners of his lips. "Father's honor or not, we're all bound to the White Hawk's dream now," he declared with drunken certainty, unaware of how prophetic his words might prove. "Whatever was done tonight, Griffith will turn it to advantage. He always does."

Her eye twitched, jaw clenched tight enough to send pain radiating through her temples as she felt the weight of the Band's blind convictions pressing upon her like a burial shroud.

"You are bound to it," she said, each word falling like a blade striking stone, sparks flying in the darkness. "I choose not to be. I know Griffith enough to recognize he is a person rather than the god you are raising him to be." She scoffed, crossing her arms- a shield against their judgments more effective than steel. "I respect him for what he is, not for what I want him to be."

Corkus's expression contorted in a journey from shock to outrage, mouth opening and closing without sound, like a fish plucked from water and suddenly confronted with the alien concept of air. His face flushed crimson, the veins in his neck standing proud as mountains on a map as he slammed his drink down, ale sloshing over the rim in amber waves.

"Not some god?" he repeated incredulously, the words strangled as though she'd committed blasphemy in a cathedral. "The man lifted us from nothing, made us knights from gutter rats!"

Hawks murmured in agreement, casting wary glances at the swordswoman as if her words might somehow reach Griffith's ears across the city, as if she'd invoked some curse that might bring their collective dreams crashing down. Rickert's expression registered as confusion tinged with hurt, unable to reconcile her statement with the reverence he held for their leader, while Pippin's granite features remained unreadable, though his massive hands tightened noticeably around his tankard, wood creaking in protest.

"Knowing him longest means seeing him before the legend formed," A statement from Judeau that somehow managed to sound neither judgmental nor supportive. It was a tightrope walker's perfect balance.

"The band follows Griffith, his dream is our dream." Corkus nodded and gestured wildly with his tankard, ignoring Judeau's observations as though they were gnats to be swatted away.  "When he's king... and he will be king, those who stood by him will rise highest." He declared with a signature slur, eyes narrowing at the swordswoman as though she were forfeiting her birthright, her place in a glorious future that to her seemed increasingly built on quicksand foundations.

"He is human, a man who bleeds like us all," she countered, each word measured yet carrying the weight of years of observation. "Do you understand putting him that high will be a disservice to us all? When your expectations are that high, there is no room for mistakes!"

Silence fell over the tavern, heavier than chain mail, punctuated only by a distant cough and the nervous shuffling of feet. The tavern keeper wisely retreated to the far corner, sensing the tension that could erupt at any moment, like a veteran soldier who recognizes the peculiar stillness before battle breaks.

"A disservice?" Gaston interjected, his voice carrying the crusading certainty of the converted. "He's not like us- that's the point! No ordinary man could have achieved what he has."

A scattered remnant of Hawks pounded their fists and tankards on the tables in agreement, the sound echoing like distant thunder, the percussion of an approaching storm.

"There's wisdom in remembering the humanity of those we follow," Judeau conceded carefully- earning quick and sharp glances from those surrounding him, the words landing like the first raindrops before a deluge. "Though few men wish to be seen too clearly, even by their oldest friends."

The swordswoman kept her expression carefully neutral, a mask perfected through years of court intrigues and battlefield negotiations, deciding not to reply just yet. An older Hawk who rarely spoke raised his tankard slightly, the gesture tentative as a peace offering.

"My father served a lord who was treated as a god," he offered, his weathered face thoughtful, lines carved by sun and sorrow deepening. "When he bled in battle, his men fled in terror, they'd forgotten he could bleed at all."  The observation hung in the air for a heartbeat before Corkus's glare silenced him.

"You've changed," Corkus declared accusingly to the swordswoman- jabbing a finger in her direction, unsteady as a compass in a storm. "Was a time you'd have cut down anyone who spoke of Griffith as just a man."

The statement landed with particular weight, enough for her fists to clench, nails biting into calloused palms. It highlighted not just her current isolation but the fundamental shift in her perception that separated her from her comrades- the distance that had grown like a chasm between continents, imperceptible day by day until suddenly uncrossable. In her, something finally snapped. A bowstring pulled beyond its tolerance, a dam breach after years of mounting pressure.

"You think that due to my closeness with him!" She shouted, slamming her fist down with enough force to send tankards dancing. "You are a sheep, cattle, Corkus- you've always been one! Putting him on a pedestal doesn't mean you see him, you dimwit!"

The tavern erupted into chaos at the dueler's outburst, Hawks leaping to their feet, hands hovering near weapons that weren't there, faces contorted with shock and outrage. Corkus staggered backward as if physically struck by her words.

"How dare you!" he sputtered, face flushed with equal parts rage and intoxication, while others rushed to restrain him, a bench toppling with a crash that punctuated the storm of voices like thunder following lightning. "Those words border on treachery!" Corkus screamed, spittle flying from his lips, catching the light like diamond fragments. Judeau stood slowly, his calm demeanor suddenly transformed into something more serious, more measured.

"Perhaps this conversation should continue when tempers aren't inflamed by ale and absence,"  he suggested, though his eyes revealed his understanding of the deeper rift the swordswoman's words had exposed. It was a fracture in the foundation stone of their shared purpose. "We are all tired, and events with Guts remain unclear," His reasonable tone creating a momentary island of calm in the sea of rising emotion.

"But she speaks from a position none of us share, having known Griffith before the Band existed."

"That doesn't give her the right to call us sheep!" Corkus shouted, struggling against those restraining him, his indignation finding echoes among the other Hawks. The division in the room became physically manifested as men shifted positions, some moving away from the swordswoman while others seemed to consider her words with grudging thoughtfulness, as though trying to recall when they had last seen their leader as merely a man rather than a living standard. She eventually tore away from the group, snatching her coat from the rack and striding for the door with the controlled violence of a storm front.

"Tch-" she growled, the sound more animal than human, before ascending the stairs two at a time.

"Good riddance!" Corkus shouted after her though his bravado rang hollow against the finality of the door slamming shut, the sound echoing like judgment rendered.

Outside, the swordswoman strode through streets slick with recent rain, each puddle a black mirror reflecting fractured lantern light. The few citizens still abroad pressed themselves against buildings as she passed, recognizing the Hawk emblem on her uniform and the dangerous fury in her stride. The inn where the Hawks were quartered appeared through the mist, lanterns burning in windows that promised warmth the swordswoman no longer felt entitled to share. Guards stationed outside recognized her immediately, saluting despite her disheveled appearance- respect for her position rather than her person, for the symbol she wore rather than the woman who wore it. She went straight to her room, the door closing behind her with the finality of a tomb being sealed. Yet the night felt as though she were sleeping on broken glass rather than the feather mattress earned through blood and loyalty. She stared hard into the ceiling's shadows, replaying her words, retracing the path that had led her to this precipice of isolation.

Guilt flared in her breast, then followed by defiant justification. There was a pendulum swing as familiar as her sword forms. Everyone doesn't see Griffith for who he truly is. A man full of ambition, yes, but a man nonetheless. Someone who needs power to exist more than air itself. Someone capable of genuine kindness but equally capable of calculating tenderness when it serves his purpose. He is a man of contradiction like any other, perhaps more so... his brilliance making his shadows all the darker by contrast. She lay on her bed, struggling against thoughts that circled like vultures until she sighed, surrendering to wakefulness. With deliberate movements, she descended the stairs to see if wine might grant her the oblivion sleep denied. At the bar, she downed cup after cup, each one promising relief, each failing to deliver. The wine blurred the edges of her thoughts but sharpened her regrets, making the room spin while her mind remained cruelly, perfectly lucid. It felt too dizzying to stand, yet too painful to remain seated with her thoughts. The irony did not escape her. She who had maintained balance on blood-slicked battlefields now undone by a few cups of common wine and uncommonly heavy truths.

In the corner of her vision, a familiar silhouette appeared, tall, composed, inevitable as dawn.

"You're awake?"

Griffith's voice slipped into her subconcious. She simply lifted her tankard to her lips.

He lingers in the liminal space between lamplight and shadow, silver hair still carved into its courtly perfection, untouched by time or the cloying wine-scented air of the tavern. The White Hawk’s gaze sharpens as it sweeps over the woman collapsed at the bar. Her silhouette slumps like a fallen banner; emptied goblets scatter around her like discarded weapons. The tremble in her fingers, her lids flickering undecided on whether to drift her to slumber or keep her abated is cataloged and weighed. His steps are silent despite the ceremonial boots, their gilded edges catching the light as he advances.

“I heard there was quite a scene at the brewery tonight.” Griffith’s voice was steeped honey as he claimed the stool beside her. Rosewater and bergamot clung to him, nobility’s perfume. His gloved hand slid toward her half-drained cup, fingers curling around it without lifting. The gesture was both caress and collar, his knuckles grazing hers in a parody of intimacy. If sober, she might’ve recoiled. Instead, wine thickened her retort to sludge:

“Here to scold me?”

“Observe.” His thumb traced the cup’s rim, a sculptor smoothing marble. “Though your performance tonight did lack… finesse.”

"Yeah?" She scoffed, the wine tempering the solemnity between them.

"Mhm."

“Finesse your ass.”

His laugh hummed low, a string plucked against her pulse. With serpentine grace, he pried the cup from her grip- the theft seamless, undeniable.

"Are you angry?" She asked suddenly, her gaze averted over her fingers fidgeting with one another. His smile widened over her cowering to even look at him.

"No." His breath was warm on her ear, "Did you think I would be?"

"Yes," She slurs honestly, her gaze finally settling on his to see him sit within his triumphant leer. He scoffed as he let the tavern take the wine, whisping away the tears of the night replaced by water in a chipped tankard. She glared at the betrayal.

"I can just order another one." She retorted.

"And what will that do for you?" He asked. She lunged upright. The room listed, timbers groaning like a gallows tree. His hand closed on her wrist. Not restraint, but mockery of aid. "Sit, drink." He murmured, "You're three sips of ale from a disaster otherwise."

She collapsed back, the stool’s protest echoing her own. "Why are you here?"

"Must I justify breathing your air? I just came back from the dinner party and was going for my room when I saw you slumped over the bar egregiously."

"And?"

He hadn't moved, and then he spoke her name. "The band members didn't take your conversation too lightly, there are opportunities to get their licks back seeing you so open and agreeable like this."

She looked down at the water, then back at him, recognition dawning even through her intoxication. He was doing it again, playing her with the same practiced ease he maneuvered courtiers and kings. She sipped the water reluctantly before setting it down with deliberate dismissal.

"There-"

"I won't be leaving until you're sober enough to climb the stairs,"He interrupted, his politeness a perfectly crafted weapon. "Unless you're arguing for me to carry you up instead, I suggest you finish your serving."

She growled and glanced away, searching for safer territory. "I wonder why you're back here and not at Charlotte's."

"I don't believe you ever truly cared for women until you've seen me next to the princess,"  he countered, the observation stabbing her silently. " You didn't care for Casca's closeness. But I suppose I wasn't receptive then."

Her gaze lingered on his perfect form, eyes struggling to maintain focus as exhaustion claimed further space in her consciousness. The wine's embrace pulled her toward darkness, then snapped her back to his unsettling presence.

"I don't care," she drawled, the protest hollow even to her own ears.

"You care enough to bring her up," he whispered. She jolted at the sudden sensation of his fingers pulling stray lint from her cloak. Proprietary gesture that claimed her personal space without permission.

"Because that's all you're around," she snarled.

His gaze grew half-lidded as he shifted his weight, his arm pressing beside hers on the counter, leaning in with the casual invasion of territory that had conquered nations. "And where were you?" The question carried accusation wrapped in silk. "Avoiding me, feigning your focus elsewhere."

"I'm getting out of your way," she hissed.

"No, you aren't." His certainty cut through her defenses like a blade through parchment. "You're standing in your own, telling yourself it's better that way."

Her eyes widened as she glared at him, yet he regarded her with a calm so complete it sent involuntary shivers across her skin, the ancient, instinctive recognition of predator by prey. "The conversation you instigated at the pub only revealed how green you truly are, how elaborately you lie to yourself."

Each word fell with the precision of a master archer, finding vital targets without wasted motion. "If you didn't care, you wouldn't expend such effort avoiding me. If you're hurt by my actions, you could approach me directly, yet you choose otherwise."

"And then what, Huh?" The question tore from her throat, raw and unvarnished. "You pull that strange performance from the flower field again? You manipulate me as you do Casca? I'm not a fucking idiot, Griffith. If you wanted me docile, you should have simply commanded it."

"Hmm... still fixated on that incident."  He tilted his head, a gesture reminiscent of falcon considering its quarry. For once, his perfect composure showed a hairline fracture, brows furrowing slightly as if encountering an unexpected obstacle. "And if I did command it, would that make a difference?

She froze, her spine rigid against the bar's edge as though she'd been impaled by his words, her eyes carefully searching his for the trap she knew must exist. "What?" The question emerged barely audible, a breath rather than a word.

"You suggested a solution. Did you not expect I might consider it?" he replied, his gaze unwavering as he settled his cheek against his palm, studying her reaction with the detached fascination of a naturalist observing a rare specimen.

"Shut up," she growled, a cornered animal's warning. His lips curved into that familiar smirk- the expression that had preceded the fall of castles and the rise of their banner across Midland's blood-soaked fields.

"Don't grow bashful now, you seemed to offer a serious proposal."  The silence between them stretched taut as a bowstring, laden with everything they'd never said directly yet had always understood-a battlefield where neither could claim certain victory, where the casualties would be counted in truths rather than bodies. She held his gaze, a dangerous game she knew better than to play, yet couldn't abandon. The tavern around them receded into shadow, the world shrinking to just this: his eyes, her breath, the thread of tension pulled tight between them.

"You mistake me, I don't want your submission." His fingers uncurled on the bar beside hers, a hairsbreadth separating them. The deliberate proximity ignited every nerve along her skin.

"What do you want, then?" she whispered, hating the betraying tremble in her voice.

"Better questions." The corner of his mouth lifted, though, not quite a smile, something far more dangerous. "You've known me since we were children scavenging for survival, yet you ask what I want as though I'm a stranger."

His gloved finger traced a circle on the wood beneath it, spiraling closer to her hand with each revolution. She watched, transfixed, as though it were a blade approaching her throat.

"You already know what I want," His voice steepened, "The question haunting you is why I want you to want it too."

She swallowed what felt like a lemon down her throat. "I don't understand."

"You do."  His eyes caressed her face, lingering at her lips.  "That's what terrifies you." He shifted imperceptibly, his knee brushing against hers beneath the counter. She fought the instinct to pull away, knowing retreat would only confirm his power over her.

"In the flower field, I saw something in your eyes I've seen a thousand times before. In courtiers seeking favor. In enemies begging mercy." His hand finally settled over hers. Not grasping, simply resting there, a warm weight impossibly heavy. Catching her in the web of trepidation. "Recognition, the moment when someone finally understands exactly what they are to me."

She wanted to recoil, to snarl some cutting retort, but her body betrayed her, remaining perfectly still beneath his touch, her pulse hammering against her throat. "And what am I to you?" The question escaped before she could bite it back.

Griffith's smile deepened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes at her inevitable surrender to curiosity. He leaned closer, moon color hair falling forward to create a curtain around their faces, a private world within the tavern's dampened atmosphere.

"Everything the others are not."

His thumb traced the ridge of her knuckles, each circle drawing smaller, more precise. His touch left trails of heat that sank beneath her skin, deep into her marrow- inside her soul. "The princess offers her kingdom," Blue orbs held her in predatory focus.

"Casca, her devotion. Guts, his sword. But you..." He reached up suddenly, capturing a strand of her hair between his fingers. The unexpected intimacy froze her breath in her lungs. "Offer nothing because you believe you have nothing I want. That is your greatest miscalculation."

The strand slipped through his fingers, a deliberate caress that felt more invasive than if he'd claimed her mouth.

"I don't play games," she lied, voice hoarse.

"We've played nothing but games since we were children." His smile held genuine warmth now, the most dangerous weapon in his arsenal. "The difference is that I've always acknowledged what we're doing."

She tried to look away, glance into something infinitesimal in the room to dally her time with, not this creeping hell...  but his gaze held her captive. The water in her cup rippled with her trembling hand.

"And what exactly are we doing, Griffith?"

"Dancing," he chuckled, leaning back slightly as though savoring her confusion more than any wine could in the night. "You advance, I retreat. I pursue, you evade. We circle each other like wolves, neither willing to draw first blood."

His hand slid from hers, trailing up her arm with featherlight pressure that somehow burned through fabric to skin.

"You could end this dance whenever you choose. You need only admit what you want."

"And if what I want isn't what you think?" His laugh held truth beneath its lowness, eyes crinkling at the corners in that rare way that reminded her of the boy he'd been.  "Then I would be fascinated to discover how I've read you so wrong after all these years."

He stood suddenly, the movement fluid, mocking her inebriated posture. Towering over her, backlit by the tavern's guttering candles, he appeared almost otherworldly. "But we both know I haven't," he said while his smile faded into the nethers. "Your eyes have always betrayed you."

Her body rose with him, unwilling to remain seated while he loomed above. The sudden movement sent the room spinning, and she swayed dangerously. His hands caught her elbows, steadying her with effortless strength, drawing her closer than intended.

"Careful," His voice was a physical sensation against her ear. A caress she missed but never felt. "Pride makes for treacherous footing." His hands lingered longer than necessary, thumbs brushing circular patterns against the sensitive inner crease of her elbows. The touch seemed innocent, yet sent shivers cascading down her spine.

"I'm not prideful, I'm honest."

"Are you?"

He stepped back, creating space between them that somehow felt more intimate than their proximity had been. "Then honestly tell me why you avoided me at court tonight." The challenge hung between them, unanswerable without conceding ground she couldn't afford to lose. "...You should get some rest," His tone shifted to something gentler- almost tender. "You may even rest if you're succumbing to the alcohol by morning. I can check with you if you'd like."

He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Unless you'd prefer I stay?"

The question carried volumes beneath its surface. An offering. A test. A trap.

"I don't need a nursemaid," she said, the words hollow even to her own ears.

"No," he agreed, those azure eyes unearthing the deepest secrets she even hid from herself. "You never have."

He moved toward the door with that preternatural grace. With each step, she felt the opportunity slipping away- though for what, she couldn't name.

"Griffith," she called, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. He turned, expectation etched in the tilt of his head, the patient stillness of his posture.

"Why did you really come down here tonight?" His smile bloomed slowly, transforming his face from beautiful to engulfing "Because I wanted to..."

Her gaze snap to his, to his smile, to his lips.

"The same reason you followed me into that flower field, despite knowing better."

He opened the door, cool night air rushing in to clear the tavern's stale heat. "Sleep well," he said with a voice silken. "Dream of whatever you wish. I know I shall."

The door closed behind him with finality, leaving her alone with a half-empty water cup and the lingering sensation of his fingers against her skin. A phantom touch that promised to haunt her long after the wine's effects had faded. She collapsed back onto her stool, heart racing as though she'd survived a battle rather than a conversation. Only then did she realize her fingers were pressed to the spot on her arm where he had touched her, unconsciously tracing the same patterns his thumb had drawn. Cursing under her breath, she snatched her hand away- too late to deny the truth his eyes had so easily read in hers.

Chapter Text

He wasn't lying when he said he would be there in the morning. the swordswoman awoke to a gentle rap on the door and sat up, staring at it as though it had spoken her name. She hadn't dreamed- dreams required sleep beyond the drunken haze that had claimed her the night before, hours that had slipped away like whispered secrets. She hadn't asked where Griffith had gone; either too intoxicated to care or silently acknowledging that he likely left to quell the suspicions of nobles who might have noted his absence. Meanwhile, she had navigated the dark waters of inebriation, losing the finer details of the evening to the wine's embrace.

Until that light knocking pulled her back to reality.

"Yes?" Her voice rasped against her dry throat.

"May I come in?" Griffith's voice filtered through the wood, each hushed syllable seeming to crystallize the air between them.

"Go on."

The door hinges protested as he entered, already fully adorned in his signature armor, its polished surface capturing and transforming what little light seeped through the curtained windows. Her fingers instinctively tightened around the blanket, drawing it higher to conceal her disheveled state and the lingering scent of ale that clung to her. His smile widened as he observed her, deliberate in closing the door gently behind him.

The air that followed carried autumn's crisp breath, evidence of early morning drills with the Hawks. Any words she might have spoken died when the mattress dipped beneath his weight. He settled at the edge, exhaling with that calculated boyishness he employed when attempting to bridge distances. With methodical care, he straightened her gloves abandoned on the nightstand, bringing order to the chaos as though tidying the space might somehow extend to her appearance.

"Did I miss training?" she murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

"I said you could rest this morning." A brief smile flashed across his face. "How does one sleep when swimming in wine?"

"Deeply. Too deeply." She tensed when his gauntleted hand came to rest on the bed beside her thigh. The metal gleamed coldly, threatening in its proximity.

"I share a similar fate," he said. Her mind immediately seized upon possible hidden meanings, but then he continued, "Julius is dead. His son too. Guards discovered their bodies in the night, but the assassin apparently escaped."

His voice remained soft, casual, as if discussing changes in the weather rather than the elimination of nobility. Understanding dawned slowly through her wine fogged mind. Julius... the same man who had struck Griffith for merely breathing near Princess Charlotte.

"They're... dead?" She studied his profile, searching for any crack in his perfect composure.

"The prevailing theory suggests a Tudor assassin infiltrated Julius's quarters." He gave her a measured sidelong glance. "I informed the Hawks earlier, but wanted to tell you personally. The king has ordered stricter curfews and heightened security throughout the castle. We must remain vigilant- there is still much work ahead." The swordswoman wrapped her mind around his words, struggling to comprehend their implications. A realization struck her like cold water.

"Was it the same assassin who attempted to take your life?" She leaned forward instinctively, a futile protective gesture. The subtle leer playing across his lips deepened as he watched her.

"That remains unknown."

She hummed noncommittally, fingers fidgeting with the blanket's edge, "You should have more Hawks guarding you, then."  She slid from beneath the covers, reaching for her scattered clothing before armor.

"There's no need for haste," he whispered, eyes gleaming. "Be calm."

"An assassin who managed to kill a royal bloodline and nearly you, if not for your crimson behelit- roams free. Haste seems appropriate." She ignored his counsel, fumbling for her vambraces and greaves that had somehow migrated to the far corner of the chamber.

"I truly doubt the assassin who killed Julius and Adonis poses any further threat. The king will provide whatever protection is necessary."  His tone carried absolute certainty. She pulled her shirt over her head, expecting him to avert his gaze. Instead, his sapphire eyes lingered on her skin before reluctantly turning toward the wall.

"Why aren't you concerned? This isn't like your usual caution." Irritation colored her words as she hastily donned clean breeches.

"Perhaps I am concerned," his voice barely carried across the room. "Or… I possess perspective that renders worry unnecessary. Either way, there's no cause for alarm."

She paused, studying the silver cascade of his hair as he faced away. After pregnant silence, she finally asked,"What perspective?"

"That I am safe and well. No need for worry- unless worry is what you desire."

She nearly tore her tunic in her haste to dress, then paced deliberately into his line of sight, her expression a silent demand. "Tell me. What is it?" she pressed, searching his face for truth.

He blinked slowly, considering, before finally relenting. "Julius was my would-be assassin. Now he's dead. If assassins target the royal family, it's a political maneuver. Our reputation as the Band of the Hawk likely complicates Tudor attempts to mark us as targets."

She stopped, narrowing her eyes. "And how do you know this?"

"The same way I know his punch stemmed from my introduction to Charlotte. He resented her disinterest in `maintaining bloodlines through... family connections."  Griffith's voice remained measured. "Consider the circumstances of my own near-assassination, we were surrounded by our band and royal guards. The king's presence alone should have deterred any Tudor agent. Yet an arrow nearly reached Charlotte when all eyes were upon her. One might conclude certain guards deliberately looked away."

His assessment chilled her. The logic was undeniable. It couldn't have been Tudor agents, not with the Hawks and royal guards positioned throughout the gathering. But then...

"How did assassins reach Julius and Adonis through those same defenses?" The dueler's brow furrowed in concentration.

"We may never know." Griffith rose smoothly, stepping into her personal space. "More pressing matters await us, another conflict with Tudor forces approaches. This battle promises greater intensity than our previous engagements. If you fight, I want you near me. I won't have you charging recklessly toward death. Julius and Adonis's demise may serve our purposes in ways yet unrealized." His lips curved into that mysterious smile before he gently squeezed her shoulder and departed.

Alone, she dissected his words, searching for hidden meanings she knew he had deliberately planted for her to discover. After donning her armor, she descended to find clusters of Hawks who briefly glanced her way before turning inward like wilting flowers. The morning produced a crowded room filled with hollow silence.She ate alone in the market before the king's address regarding his brother and nephew's deaths. Her eyes traced the oak table's whorls while her mind revisited the previous day. Guts had worn an unfamiliar expression last night, and Griffith's careful words suggested the black swordsman's involvement. Perhaps Griffith shared this partial truth to avoid bearing secrets alone, giving her just enough knowledge to satisfy while maintaining her plausible ignorance if questioned.

Her untouched meal grew cold as the bench groaned beneath a new weight.

"Rough morning?" Judeau asked.

She cleared her throat, hastily surfacing from her thoughts as though caught somewhere forbidden. "It's tolerable. Griffith told me about Julius and Adonis." She paused, adding with unconscious spite, "Poor kid.”

"Not poor Julius?" Judeau asked, arching a blond eyebrow while settling his arms across the table. She averted her gaze and let out a derisive sound.

"I maintain my allegiances. The man struck Griffith." She took her fork in hand, listlessly stirring her untouched food, a performance of normalcy for any watching eyes.

The weight of the Hawks' collective gaze pressed upon her shoulders, their whispers rustling through the market like leaves dancing on branches. Judeau's expression softened with a sympathy she neither wanted nor deserved. Her eyes drifted past him to where Guts hunched over his meal, massive frame curled inward as though trying to diminish his presence, one hand occasionally touching his chest where bandages likely hid beneath his shirt.

"Without the nuance of your history with Griffith, half the band might think you've denounced him," Judeau murmured, drawing a small knife to continue carving the wooden owl taking shape in his deft hands.

She stared at the figurine's hollow eye sockets, finding kinship in their empty gaze. "Don't they already?"

"Not all of them. Took some talking to, but Rickert, Pippin, and I managed to reason with most once the ale wore off." A gentle smile played across his face as his blade carefully etched feather patterns into the wooden wing. "Surprisingly, Guts defended you too. Quite firmly, actually."

She froze at this revelation, memory flashing to the dark stain pooling beneath Guts' feet in the pub’s doorway last night. Her gaze snapped back to the black swordsman, studying how he glared at his plate with such intensity that his thoughts seemed almost tangible. "Did he? When exactly did he return to the pub?" She probed carefully, piecing together fragments of a puzzle her instincts had already half assembled.

"Some time after your departure. He seemed... different by then. Calmer, but distant. Casca arrived with him and barely spoke a word all evening."

She considered this, brow furrowing as implications settled like stones. "Griffith visited the tavern at the inn last night while I was drowning myself in wine. Interesting timing."

Judeau's hands stilled, thumb pressing against the owl's carved beak as understanding passed between them without words. The coincidence was too perfect. Guts' mysterious absence, his return in a bloodied state, Julius and his son found dead by morning. Judeau was perceptive enough to draw the same conclusions she had, but wise enough to keep such dangerous observations locked behind careful eyes.

"Is Guts injured?" she asked, deflecting from the precipice of dangerous speculation.

"He's bandaged. Been unusually withdrawn all morning," Judeau resumed his carving with deliberate focus. "You haven't touched your food."

"I find my appetite diminished in the face of unanswered questions." Her eyes flickered sideways, catching Corkus' venomous glare from across oak tables as if he wanted to snort and spit at her. "What about you?”

“Finished mine earlier. Waiting for this state of address to happen with all the commotion.”

“I see.” She murmured as she sighs.

Her food remained untouched, appetite extinguished by the churning suspicions she refused to fully acknowledge. Something deep within whispered that Griffith's hands weren't clean in this matter. She silenced that voice, preferring the comfortable lie that he had spent the evening at Charlotte's dinner party, far from Julius's chambers, far from blood.

"I'll see if he's willing to talk," she muttered, abruptly rising and collecting her bowl. She navigated the market strategically, counting each interaction as she moved: Rickert's cautious smile, Corkus's turned back, Gaston's hesitant nod. Each reaction tallied in her mind like votes, measuring where she stood with the Hawks after the tavern incident. The crowd parted before her like reluctant water as she made her determined approach toward Guts.

His dark eyes lifted to meet hers just as the tavern door burst open. Midland guards entered with military precision, their armor gleaming in the dusty light.

"The State of Address commences now! Finish your meals and proceed immediately to the royal courtyard for His Majesty's proclamation!"

A growl of frustration escaped her throat. Guts rose silently, his own bowl of congealed porridge untouched. "Hey..." she called, her voice sharp enough to halt his retreat. She waited for him to speak, but his silence stretched between them like drawn steel. Finally, she relented. "After the address, find me." It wasn't a request. His eyes held hers for a moment, acknowledgment without commitment, before he turned away, the tense set of his shoulders betraying more than words ever could.

The Hawks flowed into the courtyard like tributaries to a river, arranging themselves in practiced formation beneath the elevated royal platform. The autumn sun glinted off polished armor and drew long shadows across cobblestones still damp from morning dew.

God, how she hated him.

The king's very presence made her blood simmer. Every moment spent in the royal court reminded her of the generational chains her family had endured. Her father, a legendary swordsman reduced to servitude by royal decree, had never fully explained the circumstances of his bondage. The weight of those unspoken stories pressed upon her shoulders as heavily as any armor. The political game she now played alongside Griffith was etching irreparable fractures into her spirit. The veil of Griffith's glory had thinned in recent days. Through its transparency, she glimpsed her own ambition more clearly, to become what her father couldn't, to exact retribution from the crown. That should have been enough. Yet Griffith had cultivated more than soldiers in his garden of mercenaries; he had nurtured desires and dreams she scarcely understood. Perhaps that explained her contempt for Charlotte, not jealousy over Griffith's attentions, but hatred for the daughter of her father's subjugator. The princess was the embodiment of everything that had constrained her life, and Griffith's gentle deference to such royalty sometimes felt like betrayal. When the king emerged, the sun transformed his crown into a halo of fire. Her anger flared in response, burning like forge-heated metal.

"Citizens of Midland and valiant Band of the Hawk,"mthe king's voice carried across the hushed courtyard, "I must address the grievous circumstances that have befallen our kingdom. My brother Julius and his son, young Adonis, were brutally slain by an assassin's hand."

The crowd's collective gasp rippled outward, their murmurs like oil surrounding her silent stillness. Instead of absorbing the king's carefully constructed grief, her mind whirred with calculations. Charlotte's disinterest in maintaining bloodlines through family relations...

"This tragedy has shaken the very foundation of our kingdom. To lose such beloved relatives..."

The king's features arranged themselves into an approximation of anguish that never reached his eyes.Now that Adonis is gone, who remains as Charlotte's potential match? Unless...

"How Tudor agents breached our defenses is unfathomable-"

The realization struck her with physical force. Regardless of Griffith's involvement, Julius and Adonis's deaths eliminated two crucial obstacles. Whether by design or fortune, the path to the throne had been cleared of its most direct competitors. Cold perspiration beaded across her temple as the implications crystallized in her mind. The masterful simplicity of it all was terrifying and undeniably brilliant. One night's work had rewritten the future of the kingdom. And Griffith's hands, she suspected, remained unsoiled in the eyes of all who mattered.

“-we will regroup our armies, reclaiming the territories from the Tudor, reclaiming reverence where they shall be found.”

The king continued. She had sat still, the king's words falling on deaf ears, gasps slipping past her as though they were water over a poreless surface. Her eyes caught onto the familiar streak of silver next to the king, Griffith’s calm that seemed to outshine even the kings as though he got the placement even better than his solemn features. He was calm when it was appropriate, clapped when anger rose enough for cheers to burst through ragged throats. She knew him, and yet she was behind him. Even now. And sometimes, she wonders deep down if that's worse than being ignorant. Even for what she must accomplish.

“Our armies and the band of the Hawk and White Dragons will honor Julius and Adonis to the highest decree.”

Hawks raised their fist as if they were citizens tended here in the streets and not far paupers, bandits and survivalists that had fallen in just the right circumstances. They all huddled together to listen and hear without her, cheering for a phoenix rising out of the ashes. And here she was, a fish in a lost pond, remaining silent and contemplative.

“We will honour Midland! Long live Julius! long live Adonis!” His voice raised to meet ears that stretched down blocks, earning angry shouts and cheers.

“Kill those Tudor bastards!”

“They should pay! Kill them all!” -another yelled.

The cheers were a turbulent ocean she swam in. Hawks cheered along and when the swordwoman’s gaze went onto Guts’ still frame, she knew he wasn't listening. She quickly swam through the chaos of the crowd seeking answers.

"Guts-" she breathed, her voice barely audible above the roar of the crowd. She reached through the press of bodies, fingers grazing his cloak. All around them, faces contorted with performative grief and genuine bloodlust as the king's proclamations washed over the assembly. This momentary chaos was perfect cover, their absence would go unnoticed amid the theater of royal mourning. "Guts!" she hissed more urgently when he didn't respond.

This time, his head turned. Dark eyes found hers through the forest of shoulders and raised fists. Something flickered across his scarred face- recognition, followed by wariness, then a nearly imperceptible nod. He held her gaze for deliberate heartbeats before breaking contact, his attention seemingly returning to the king's speech.

For a sickening moment, she thought he would ignore her.

Then his massive frame began shifting through the crowd, not directly toward her, but in a circuitous route that wouldn't draw attention. She caught glimpses of him through the throng, the controlled force with which he navigated the human current without appearing rushed. She retreated to the alley entrance, pulse quickening as she counted seconds. The waiting stretched nerve-thin until finally his shadow fell across the cobblestones before her. Up close, the fatigue etched into his features was unmistakable, even as they hid between tall walls.

“You holding up?” She asked.

His eyes narrow, “I'm alive.” He breathed, his massive frame blocking any sunlight that could bloom between the corners of tall homes.

“Heard you defended me last night.” She said, searching for any reaction. He had none, at least not now. Instead he gave an accusitory stare that waited for her to ask him what she really wanted to ask. After a moment she realized the memo. “You and Griffith arrived roughly at the same time last night. Everyone said you were silent.” She said and he simply glared at her, as if there was more to say. Like he could sense it before she could. “You defended me after my fight whereas I thought you would be the sort to uphold Griffith… first, why are you banged up? And second, where were you?”

He stared at her for sometime, wordless - or possibly contemplating. Reading him sometimes felt like trying to understand how letters appear while blind since birth. The silence ate at her and eventually she sighed.

“Did you have something to do with Julius and Adonis death? Anything relative?” She asked. His eyes narrowed into slits,

“why are you asking?”

“Because I think Griffith told me enough for me to realize.”

His mouth twitched, not a full grimace but a momentary fracture in his stoic facade. The tight muscles along his jaw rippled beneath scarred skin as he absorbed her words. His massive shoulders slumped imperceptibly, as though invisible weights had been chained to them overnight. The narrow alleyway closed around them like a slowly tightening fist, damp stone walls sweating with morning mist, the scent of mold and sewage rising from beneath their boots. Above, a sliver of sky remained visible between leaning buildings, while the crowd's distant roars for vengeance faded to muffled echoes, distorted by the warren of urban passages.

"What exactly did he tell you?" Guts finally asked, voice rasping like a whetstone against dulled steel.

She stepped closer, close enough to smell the wound poultice seeping through his bandages, herbs and tallow mingling with dried sweat and the metallic scent of blood. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper, each word measured as precisely as a swordstroke. "Nothing directly. He spoke of Julius being his would-be assassin," she breathed, glancing toward the alley entrance to ensure they remained alone. "He mentioned Charlotte's disinterest in 'maintaining bloodlines through family connections' and claimed we may never know how assassins reached Julius and Adonis."

Each point landed like an accusation, though her tone remained neutral. She watched him process her words, noting how his throat tightened, how the scar bisecting his nose whitened as blood drained from his face.

"And what do you think happened?" The question hung between them, not merely words but a threshold. A boundary between ignorance and complicity. Between the Hawks they had been and whatever they would become after this conversation She calculated her next words carefully, weighing each syllable before allowing it past her lips. The wrong approach could shatter whatever fragile trust existed between them. Too direct, and she risked pushing him into defensive denial; too oblique, and she might never learn the truth. She kept her voice even, her gaze steady.

"I think Griffith sent someone to eliminate a threat to his ambitions," she said, holding his eyes with unflinching focus. "Someone he trusts implicitly. Someone whose unexpected wounds suddenly need explaining."

A bitter laugh escaped Guts, a sound more like broken glass than genuine mirth. It scraped against the stone walls before dying abruptly, as though he'd strangled the sound mid-birth. A muscle jumped in his cheek. "Then why ask me what you've already decided?"

"Because I need to hear it." Her hands clenched at her sides, fingernails biting into calloused palms. "I need to know if-" The words fractured in her throat, insufficient for the weight crushing her chest. How to articulate the vertiginous sensation of watching foundations crumble? "I need to know what exactly is happening? How things are changing around here?"

Guts leaned against the alley wall, his broad back pressing against ancient stone worn smooth by centuries of similar burdens. The motion lacked his usual fluid grace; he moved like an old man, with cautious awareness of injuries beyond the visible. Fatigue etched lines around his eyes that hadn't existed weeks before. For a moment, he looked older than his years, hollowed by something that ate at him from within.

"The boy wasn't supposed to be there," he said finally, each word falling between them like stones dropped into still water. The admission created ripples that would never cease. "Just Julius. That was the order." He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing sharply. "The boy saw me and... I didn't see him in time."

Her stomach turned to ice, organs contracting around the frozen core. A child. The omission in Griffith's careful explanation now glaringly obvious. Her lips parted but produced no sound, lungs suddenly incapable of drawing sufficient breath. "You killed a child?" she finally managed to hiss through clenched teeth.

"I didn't want to." Something terrible moved behind his eyes, not merely regret but a fundamental fracture in his understanding of himself. His massive hand clenched and unclenched, the same hand that had wielded the blade. "He was behind the door after Julius was killed." His voice caught. "I panicked, thinking it was a guard."

The image bloomed in her mind with horrific clarity: the boy's terror, the fatal plummet, Guts' desperate lunge. The alley seemed to tilt beneath her feet, stone suddenly unreliable as the implications crashed through her. "Did Griffith order you specifically to..." The sentence refused completion, her tongue recoiling from the necessary words.

"To murder Julius? Yes." Guts' voice hardened, taking on the edge it carried in battle. His shoulders squared slightly, as though bracing against memory's assault. "What else would you call it when he hands you an order and says a man's name?" A bitter twist of his lips. "He never mentioned the boy."

She pressed her palms against her eyes, applying pressure as though physically containing the storm building inside her skull. Colored patterns bloomed in the darkness behind closed lids, chaos mirroring her thoughts. The foundation of everything she'd built her loyalty upon seemed suddenly constructed of sand rather than stone. "And you just... went?" She lowered her hands, needing to see his response.

"You've never really went against him either," Guts countered, a spark of defiance flaring in his dark eyes. Something almost accusatory entered his voice.  "None of us have. Why would we think to?"

The truth of his words struck her. A drop of water fell from somewhere above, striking the cobblestones with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the weighted silence. It left a darkened stain like spilled blood, rapidly disappearing into thirsty stone. She remembered Griffith's words from the tavern, his perfect certainty...

You already know what I want. The question haunting you is why I want you to want it too.

The revelation of his methods brought those words into stark relief.

"What did he say when you told him about the boy?" she asked, suddenly desperate to understand how Griffith had reconciled this collateral damage with his grand vision.

Guts' expression darkened further, shadows pooling in the hollows beneath his cheekbones.  "He said it was unfortunate but inevitable. That sacrifices were necessary on the path to a kingdom."

Something bleak and wounded flashed across his face. The truth of it resonated with disturbing familiarity. It wasn't the first time she'd sensed this manipulation, nor would it be the last, but naming it aloud somehow transformed nebulous suspicion into concrete reality. The sensation remained elusive, whenever she tried to grasp its full implications, the understanding slipped through her fingers like morning mist, leaving only more questions in its wake. She studied Guts' face, noting the unfamiliar doubt etched into features normally hardened with battlefield certainty.

"You look like you're second-guessing yourself," she murmured, crossing her arms against the persistent chill that crept between the narrow stone walls. The gesture was as much for protection as warmth, a shield against truths neither was fully prepared to face.

"I am." Guts' voice carried a rawness she'd never heard before. His gaze drifted to a broken clay pot wedged in a crevice where wall met ground, overlooked, forgotten. A stubborn sapling still clung to life within it, roots desperately gripping what little soil remained, leaves reaching toward meager sunlight that rarely penetrated the alley's gloom.

"This isn't really me."

Her eyes widened, the full implication jolting into her with unexpected force. She had asked the question expecting denial, perhaps even anger, not this quiet, devastating admission of uncertainty. "Is that why you asked me that night at the festival?" she ventured, the memory of his words returning with new significance. "When you suggested I could leave the band... was that because you've been considering it yourself?"

A muscle worked in his jaw as he continued staring at the broken pot, unable or unwilling to meet her gaze. The hands that had wielded the Dragon Slayer through countless battles now hung limp at his sides, purposeless outside their ordained function. "I didn't recognize it then for what it was,"  he said finally, each word extracted with painful effort. "Just this... restlessness."

She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. How well she understood that sensation, the disorienting moment when Griffith's desires became indistinguishable from her own, when his goals seemed the only logical path forward. The revelation that Guts, the most independent among them, felt it too only heightened her unease.

"After Julius," he continued, voice dropping lower, "after the boy... it was like seeing myself through a window. Watching someone wearing my face do things I never imagined I'd be doing." His scarred hand flexed unconsciously.The distant cheers from the courtyard seemed suddenly obscene against this quiet confession, hundreds celebrating a lie while they huddled with dangerous truths.

"Do you regret the band?" she asked, the question catching in her throat. Guts finally looked at her, his eyes reflecting complexity beyond simple regret or loyalty.

"Do you?"

It was unanswerable in its simplicity. Following Griffith had brought them glory, purpose, brotherhood and now, complicity in something that could never be undone. The path forward suddenly seemed as broken and uncertain as the cobblestones beneath their feet.

"No." She said, regardless of the violent waves of chaos over the years, let alone the last few. This was for her father, but beyond that- she felt compelled to follow Griffith. To follow his promise to her when they were children. That he would avenge her father. Otherwise it was all in vain. She would have to admit to herself she only followed him so closely to supplant the loss of her father, of the only family she had. The question hung in the alley's damp air, deceptive in its simplicity yet impossible to answer honestly without dismantling everything they'd built their lives upon. Following Griffith had transformed them from street rats and battlefield scavengers into legendary warriors.

"No." The word repeated with surprising force, almost defiant in its certainty despite the chaos roiling beneath her surface. Her fingers unconsciously sought the hilt of her sword, the weapon that had been her constant companion long before Griffith entered her life.

"Despite everything," she continued, voice lowering as though the stones themselves might carry her confession to unwanted ears, "despite the blood and doubts, I can't regret it."

She gave a bitter laugh between her words, "This was never just about following Griffith for me," she admitted, watching Guts' expression carefully. "When he found me after the raid that killed my father, he promised something beyond survival. He swore that together, we would climb high enough to settle old debts." Her breath clouded briefly in the cold air, a ghost of promises made long ago.

"The king broke my father through years of forced servitude. Used his skills, paraded him at court, gave him slivers to live, and then discarded him to Tudor raiders." The bitterness in her voice had been cultivated over a lifetime. "Griffith understood my need for retribution without me having to explain it. He promised me closure- justice, if I followed him to his kingdom."

Understanding dawned in Guts' eyes, not just of her motivations, but of Griffith's masterful binding of her loyalty through this. Militiristic chants grew louder, interupting her histories. After the silence, after all that could be said was wrung dry, Guts shifted.

“At least,” he said, voice a graveled thing dragged from depths where light never strayed, “that’s an honorable reason.”

Not forgiveness. Not condemnation. An epitaph for the girl she’d been, the woman she’d become, and the blade’s edge they both balanced on.

Guts left her in the sleeve of shadows in the alley, as storms do, inevitable, irreversible. She watched him go, understanding that his departure was itself a message, perhaps the first truly independent choice either of them had made in years. A man dissolving not into shadow, but into a truth too vast to hold. Above, the sky narrowed to a scar, clouds bruising purple-black. She inhaled the iron-scent of looming rain and it smelled as a requiem she couldn't recognize.

Chapter Text

The queen’s grief unfolded with theatrical display, each sob choreographed, every tear glittering like stagecraft as the funeral procession snaked through Midland’s streets. The king stood mute, the hollows beneath his eyes carving his gaze into withered slivers of shadow. Alongside citizens and knights, the Band of the Hawk formed living ramparts, funneling the somber parade toward the crypts where Julius and young Adonis would sleep. The swordswoman locked her eyes on the cobblestones, tracking the hammering rhythm of hooves and steel-shod boots that pounded into the earth.

She felt petrified. 

Muscles rigid in a faux of mourning while her mind writhed with treasonous truths that withered her stomach. Wedged between Pippin’s mountain bulk and Gaston’s reed-thin silhouette, she imagined herself a ghost, certain the slightest touch of shoulders might have her careful thoughts straying into nearby bodies like thunder. That the Hawks sheltered the kingdom’s destroyer. Words and dreams were one thing, less fathomable, more ideal- all the while, actions felt like slugs of a hammer with every manifestation. A child’s fantasy of vengeance, to topple the crown that had enslaved her father, now curdled in her throat, swelling her air pipe to where her knees buckled with panic.Royal blood spilled through Griffith’s machinations left her mind in a cycle spun to hell. It tasted like a victory flavored in coal. Around her, grief swelled, peasants’ raw weeping tangling with nobles’ stage managed wails that they knew very well held no true intention. A knight in gilded plate shoulder checked her, the collision sending her sword clattering across stone.

She lunged for the blade, only to be brutally thrust back.

“Hold your ground!”  the knight roared, voice slicing through the ritual hush. “Show deference!”

All eyes snapped to the disturbance. The queen’s glare swipe to her like a whipping twig and jt threw her soul nearly from her body.

The swordswoman dipped into a rigid bow, fingers straining toward her fallen steel. “My deepest apologies, your Grace.”

When she risked a glance, the monarch’s face had frozen into a stare that negged at the swordswoman’s tenacity. Pippin’s hand engulfed her arm, hauling her back with a giant’s gentleness. Somehow, he knew the situation better than her even while remaining the most silent of the band.

“Thanks Pippin,” she murmured. Though her gratitude died when gasps erupted ahead.

The queen’s body suddenly sloughed as if she were a puppet with loose strings, crown slipping, clanging to the wooden arm of her moving throne to broken cobblestone as she crumpled. Panic rippled through the crowd. Assassin and poison shout out from gasps and cries. A silver-haired councilor barked orders, voice fraying:

“Her Majesty succumbs to grief! Clear the air!”

The Hawks held their line, discipline melting as necks craned for a better view. Rickert squirmed through arms and bodies for his eyes to snag the scene. And yet… the swordswoman’s gaze flew to Griffith, he stood doll-like, blue vivid eyes fixed on the queen’s prone form without a show of flinching to the crowd's collective chaos.

The procession lurched onward again, the queen swaddled in silk as attendants fluttered at her sides. Princess Charlotte’s pale face glimmered in her own seat, caught between tears for Adonis and dread for her mother. When the tombs vanished into the crypt’s maw, war horns shattered the silence.

Instead of an end, if felt like a beginning vibrating in the air. The Hundred-Year War’s final act.

Griffith’s grand design was flawless. Julius and Adonis, eliminated. As the crowd fractured, Pippin’s insistent tug guided her toward the inn and her body instinctively fought against the silent order.

“Of course she’d fuck up a funeral,” Corkus sneered nearby.

Murder bloomed in the Swordwoman's eyes, a garden of petulant, fingers itched for the steel at her hip. Pippin’s grip became an anchor. She was stuck holding onto it for, even while she yearned to turn around deck Corkus until he had mismatched teeth.

The campaign to end the War had been trumpeted with such unrelenting cycles of candor that the swordswoman felt her sanity twisting fraying nerves in her head.

Victory banners snapped from poles on Midland’s towers like biblical proclamations, their gilded threads unraveling in winds that carried obvious lies to the swordswoman. Town criers barked identical reports of imagined triumphs until their voices cracked. And, god, the air reeked of performative valor. A stench she might have escaped had Griffith honored his oath. He’d sworn her a place at his side, where her sword could carve purpose that she desperately wanted. Instead, she’d been leashed to royal commanders who waged war from velvet cushions, and spilled commands over red wine in their goblets.

Of course, she wasn't going to not let him have it. Never had she. Not while they were paupers and not while they stumbled into nobility. At least to her, it was stumbling.

She found him at twilight when the shadows clawed at the castle’s hearth. Torches hissed as she stormed the corridors, the flames themselves, recoiling from the aura of fury that radiated off her. Griffith’s study glowed beneath its oak door, candlelight bleeding into the hall like liquid gold. She entered without knocking. The door thundered shut behind her.

“You promised me your flank,” she said, quick and sharp. Maps sprawled across his desk, kingdoms reduced to ink and conjecture, their borders pinned under smooth stones. The lives of people symbolized in the form of pebbles. “What is this?”

Griffith’s quill danced uninterrupted across parchment. He held himself as though he'd been expecting her, as if her rage were a script he’d rehearsed over the years. Only when the page was perfected did he set the quill aside. Silver hair caught the lamplight, each strand, some ethereal wire that glittered with amber taint.

“You will be near me,” he said. His hand glided over the map, the same fingers that had once traced her scars now circling a hilltop marked Command post. “Our finest strategists gather here. You’ll guard them.” His gaze pinned her, that glacial stare that stripped her of anything she could hide herself with.

“And Guts? Casca?” She slapped their names down like they were mallets objecting to an order.

“Commanders lead armies.” He turned, plucking a book from a trunk with the grace of a thief stealing jewels. The dismissal ticked her brow.

“You know what… why not make me a commander?” She snorted incredulously, her anger wrenching anything from her lips, no matter how preposterous they may seem. “Or does my blade only merit cleaning up the nobles’ mess?”

Those perfect roseate lips stretched into a leer, “You never asked.” The book’s spine crackled as he opened it. “And reckless makes poor strategy.”

“Of course. I'm reckless." She shrugged off his words as though it didn't dress her properly, "It's been maddening having to stand sentinel over nobility time and again while others lead the charge."

Something in her tone finally drew his full attention. Griffith flickered this gaze to her that would have been devastatingly alluring had she not been nearly vibrating with anger. Lamplight caught the planes of his face, transforming familiar features into something almost otherworldly. And she hated it.

It felt deeply unsettling to find his face in her dreams. Being near him, to her in the very least, felt like an unfettered sun, not only was she blind, but orbiting around him as everyone else. Time never gave her the protection of full comformity.

"And so you'll raid my study nightly until you have your way?" His voice slipped into an intimate register that plucked at the strength in her knees. He tilted his head, letting his hair fall over his features. She hadn't even realized he was handing her parchment. “I presume?”

To his words her gaze snap down to the letter between his fingers. "What is this?" She took it, fingers deliberately avoiding contact with his.

"Read it."

The dueler’s narrowed gaze held him for longer than she could admit, before unfolding the document. The royal seal caught the light as she smoothed the creases, flakes of red wax crumbling beneath her fingers, revealing flowing script in formal hand:

"It is hereby ordered that you assign your most skilled warrior to guard the royal commanders. Use this directive at your discretion to facilitate the final offensive that shall end this war after a millennium of conflict."

And Griffith watched her with that victorious half smirk that never failed to ignite conflicting emotions, admiration and wariness. The worst of all, attraction. As though her soul recognized both salvation and damnation in his features.

"King's orders," he murmured, "This is a privilege. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to serve alongside them."

She folded the letter back in the best attempt of its original form, the crisp sound of parchment against itself filling the silence between heartbeats. "How fortunate," she finally replied, "that my recklessness hasn't disqualified me from such an honor."

He scoffed lightly, the sound almost musical in its restraint, "I didn’t decide this.”

She arched her brow, "And what about what I decide?"

Griffith moved fluid grace, replacing the book on its shelf with meticulous care. The sound of book covers sighing against each other was the only true warning she had for the night. It echoed something he was doing to her now. Sliding beneath her skin. "You could decide to visit me every night to petition against this until I’m at the king’s throne objecting to the order." Azure eyes found hers over his shoulder and it dried her throat. "I wouldn't object."

She threw the letter onto his desk, the parchment sliding across polished wood. "I'd find a way to make you object.”

Curled lips deepened, all pretense of administrative detachment falling away as he turned his full attention upon her. The intensity of his focus was so absolute that her next words died over her tongue. It sent her body singing and each tremble was a panicked response to choke on, serenading for fear it wasn't exactly fear she was facing.

"Do you really want to find that out?" His near silent breath of words somehow felt so loud she wanted to cover her ears.

Silence stretched at her resolve. She held his gaze with stubborn defiance, refusing to be the first to look away, to surrender even while the ground crumbled beneath her. After what seemed an eternity, Griffith glided to her with deliberate grace. He ate at their distance as though it were delicious and she found herself taking an unconscious step backward, spine pressing against ancient stone that leached warmth from her body. Curled lips widened at this small victory.

"Hmm? Tell me," he whispered, fingers reaching out to graze her hair, strumming intimacy where anger had been. She flinched away from the contact as though she would from pain.

"You're threatening me?" The question emerged jumbled and breathy.

"No" his voice gentled as he continued arranging wayward strands of her hair with delicate attention. She swallowed hard as his gaze penetrated beyond her defenses, seeing too much, snatching her resolve.

"Then what are you doing?"

"soothing you." His smile remained enigmatic as his palm ghosted across her cheek; a cursory touch that became more substantial as he cupped her face.

"This isn't exactly soothing me-"

"Then what is it doing?" Something primal and self-preserving surged within her. She wrenched away from his touch, lunging for the door. Her fingers had barely closed around the iron handle when his palm appeared beside her head, pressing the door gently but firmly closed. She froze, caught between unyielding wood and his presence, feeling his breath warm against her ear, smelling ink and leather and something uniquely him. A scent her body recognized before her mind could process it.

"Does it make you afraid?"  His soul spoke to her this time, she could feel it pleading to her intuition. "Are you still afraid... of me?"

She closed her eyes, shame flooding through her as she admitted a truth she'd long denied even to herself: "No."

His palm remained against the door, the barrier between her and escape becoming a torture of proximity. The heat of his body radiated against her back.

“Do you want to leave?” He murmured.

The swordswoman thumb traced the steel spun handle in contemplative, rugged spirals before she blinked out of her trance.

“No.”

She remained frozen, caught between the instinct to flee and the treacherous desire to turn and face whatever precipice they approached. Her breath came in shallow bursts, heart hammering against her ribs with such force she was certain he must hear it, must feel it resonating between them. She finally turned to face him, looking into a raging fire that threatened to engulf her.

"What do you want from me, Griffith?"

His free hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder, the touch burning through layers of fabric to the skin beneath, igniting nerve endings she hadn't realized were dormant until now. “Trust.”

"You have that," she countered, still facing the door, unable to meet his gaze for fear of what her eyes might reveal.

"Do I?" There was genuine uncertainty beneath its challenge. His fingers traced the curve where her neck met shoulder, a touch so light it might have been imagined yet impossible to ignore. "Or do you reserve parts of yourself, even now? Do you still harbor dreams you haven't shared with me?"

She turned then, unable to endure the vulnerability of her position any longer. The movement brought them face to face, mere inches separating them in the narrow space they claimed. His eyes captured hers, blue depths containing multitudes. "Everyone harbors dreams," she replied, finding unexpected steadiness in her voice. "Even you keep secrets, Griffith. Even you have desires you don't speak aloud."

Something flickered across his perfect features- surprise. His palm rested against the door beside her head, the position both intimate and confining, a physical manifestation of the beautiful cage he had constructed around her life.

"And what desires do you imagine I keep silent?" he asked, voice dropping to that register that seemed to bypass her ears and resonate directly within her chest, vibrating against her ribcage where her heart struggled to maintain its rhythm. The air between them grew impossibly thick. She was stuck in it.

"The desire to be known," she answered finally, the words emerging from some deep well of intuition she hadn't known she possessed. "You're running around chasing your own love for yourself, trying to prove you're not insignificant. But you are significant. Really beyond anything." Her voice gained strength as she continued, each word striking true against the armor of his perfection. "Sometimes your significance swallows me whole... So if you need something, just say it. Don't wave yourself to me as if you're insignificant. Don't use it as leverage over me. You can simply tell me.”

Something vulnerable and almost startled flickering across features normally schooled to paragon. And from it, she glimpsed the boy he must have been before ambition carved him into the man who stood before her lost, searching, desperate to matter in a world that had discarded him before he could prove his worth.

"I know you planned for their deaths. At least Julius'." The accusation hung between them, neither denied nor confirmed. "I'm still here. I'm still loyal." Her voice softened, though her gaze remained steady.

Time seemed suspended as he absorbed her words. When he finally moved, it was to brush his fingertips against her cheek with such unexpected gentleness that she nearly flinched.

"And that," he murmured, "is precisely why you are dangerous." The word carried no condemnation, only a strange note of admiration. "Too dangerous to be merely a commander. Too valuable to risk in common battle."

She understood then, with sudden clarity, that her perceived limitation was, in his mind, an elevation. That even as he restricted her, he was acknowledging her power in ways she hadn't recognized.

"Observe them. Listen to them. They have a reason for their selection."

Her breath caught. "And I'm left to figure out why?"

His smile returned, enigmatic as ever. "You're selected for a reason." He stepped back finally, breaking the spell of proximity that had held them both captive. "Go at dawn. Watch. Listen. Return to me with what you discover."

She straightened, reclaiming her composure along with her space. "And if I discover nothing?"

"You will." His certainty was absolute, birthing no possibility of failure. "Because you see what others miss. It's your greatest gift... and my greatest advantage."

With those words, she understood he wanted something from this. So much so that he allowed her into the hands of knights that were not the Hawk.

"You'll report to the commanders at dawn," he said, voice returning to its customary measured calm. "They'll brief you on your specific duties. I won’t be far." The abrupt return to formality left her disoriented, as though cold water had been dashed across heated skin. She straightened, gathering her dignity around her like armor.

"Fine," she replied unable to keep an edge of bitterness from her tone.

His eyes softened unexpectedly.  "It isn't punishment; someday you'll understand why you’ve been placed there."

"And until then?"

"Until then," He reached to open the door himself,  "trust that I have never forgotten my promises to you. Not a single one."

She was there earlier than requested the next day. The predawn chill clung to the training field like a shroud, seeping through leather and steel as the Swordswoman paced. Her boots scuffed patterns in the frost-stiffened grass, each breath ghosting in the air before her. Sleep had been a luxury denied- Griffith's cryptic mention of her father's past had gnawed at her consciousness like a starved rat on ancient parchment. Around her, Midland's war machine stirred to life, steel striking steel, leather creaking, and warhorses snorting plumes of vapor into the darkness. Her gaze swept the field with predatory focus, hunting for the generals' crimson sigils amidst the gathering storm of preparations.

A flash of gold hair caught her attention, striking against the drab canvas of soldiers. The man approaching wore the practiced ease of nobility in his posture, lips curved in the half-smile of someone accustomed to doors opening at his arrival. Yet beneath this veneer, his fingers betrayed him, tapping an anxious rhythm against his ornate sword belt.

"The generals won't emerge from their council for another hour at least," he said, voice pitched low as if sharing a confidence, eyes scanning the empty command tents with peculiar wariness. "Are you alone out here?"

She arched a single brow. "Should I be concerned about phantoms in the mist, sir?"

A chuckle escaped him, surprisingly genuine. "Owen," he offered, extending a gauntleted hand. "Leader of the Toumel Knights And you're the Hawk's legendary blade? The one Commander Laban insisted on recruiting personally?" Her grip met his with matched pressure, lingering a heartbeat longer than courtesy demanded. "I came at the king's decree," she corrected.

"Ah." His smile tightened at its edges. "Well, the edict bore the crown's seal, certainly, but the request itself came from Laban's own hand. He's... remarkably persuasive with official parchment when necessary."

"Laban." The name hung between them, foreign to her entirely due to her lack of political interest, "I was informed Midland's commanding council collectively sought our aid."

Owen rubbed the back of his neck, gaze shifting momentarily to the mud-crusted toes of his boots. "There are... subtleties to courtly requests that-"

A sudden parting in the ranks silenced him mid-sentence. The sea of armored bodies cleaved like water before a ship's prow, revealing a broad-shouldered figure striding toward them. The man's beard was the only discernable features first, then his eyes that were color of winter flint beneath heavy brows. The Swordswoman's spine stiffened involuntarily; veteran commanders often carried that particular look, the thousand-yard stare of men who'd waded through both battlefields and bureaucracy and found the latter more treacherous.

"Greetings," the commander rumbled, though his gaze caught on her face with peculiar intensity, as if translating some half remembered cipher. "I am Laban."

She bowed, the gesture deliberately shallow yet technically correct. "I'm honored, Commander."

"Spare me the courtesies." His laugh was a rough edged bark, but his eyes remained unmoved, assessing. "You'd rather be knee deep in Tudor blood than babysitting nobles, wouldn't you?"

"If I wished to polish egos, I'd have joined a squire's troupe years ago."

Laban's weathered grin faltered. His hand drifted, seemingly of its own accord, toward the sword at his side, fingers brushing the hilt's pommel. Even in the dimness, she caught the glint of an engraving there. It was a crescent moon cradling a single star. Kael's mark. Her father's blades had borne the same.

"You've got my teacher's tongue," he said quietly, words meant for her alone.

She froze, blood suddenly rushing in her ears. "Teacher?"

"An old mentor of mine," He turned the sword slightly so morning's first light caught the engraving more clearly. "He would have admired your... directness."

Owen glanced between them, a keen observer sensing currents too deep to navigate blindly.

"Perhaps we should discuss your specific duties," Laban said abruptly, retreating behind the armor of formality. "The eastern front grows teeth by the hour, and your Hawks have developed quite the reputation for pulling victory from hell's very jaws."

She gave a mechanical and precise nod, but her mind raced like a hunted thing. As Laban strode ahead, armor plates catching the nascent dawn in blood-red glints, Owen leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

"He's not one for sentiment or recognition. Consider yourself specially marked."

Marked? She watched Laban's rigid back, the way his fingers still unconsciously brushed the crescent moon symbol at his side. The question followed her across the frost-bitten field, more insistent than the war horns now splitting the morning air.

Chapter Text

“Are you aiming to become a knight within Midland or possibly even more?”

Laban asked in the council meeting tent, owen perched outside as if to know not to intrude. All the while she watched the sword emblem on Laban's side that bore her father's symbol. The question hung between them for a time and she didn’t want to grab it out of the air. Instead, the swordswoman found herself guarding her suspicions, diligently pacing where she could see the commander. Her stoicism hid what was really going on, her thoughts returning to Griffith just the night before. She was balancing on an edge of suspicion.

"I serve the Hawks," she replied, measuring each syllable like medicine doses for the dying. "Titles mean little against steel."

Laban's weathered face creased, crow's feet deepening as he studied her. It was her stance or cadence of her words that seemed to transfix him, as if he were watching a ghost materialize where she stood. "Yet the Hawks now hold considerable influence. Your White Hawk Commander has the nobility eating from his palm, a feat rare."

He paused while his fingers drummed against his sword pommel where that crescent moon caught morning light. "Most mercenaries would kill for such opportunities."

She stiffened at his ascertions. Would't kill shit for this, she thought. Not for this commander who was already making her stretch her replies. "I'm not most mercenaries."

"You're not." he agreed.

The command tent billowed around them as dawn's wind rose, canvas walls inhaling and exhaling like the chest of a great beast in wait. Maps sprawled across burnished oak tables, kingdoms and killing fields reduced to parchment and ink. Commanders would arrive soon, their voices raised in strategy and dissent, but for now, this inkling of space belonged to their uneasy exchange. She realized that politics was never a battlefield she could play. Especially right now.

Laban moved to a withering trunk behind the central table, his movements careful as if he sensed her growing fear. The iron lock yielded to a key worn smooth from decades of handling."A commander's greatest weapon isn't his sword," his voice roughened like he was moving back to a time before now. "It's knowing which pieces to move across the board, and when to sacrifice them."

Her gaze narrowed. Such merciless statements from a man who had claimed to defend Midland made her scoff. "Is that how you view your soldiers? Pieces?"

"It was your father who taught me that lesson."

Her laughter died immedietly. The words fell between them and her brow twitched as if it were a guillotine that struck a neck. She maintained her composure with painful discipline, though the muscles along her jaw gnawed.

"My father?" The question slipped before she could stop it. Her eyes were steady on him, watching for sudden movements as if she were a rodent.

Laban withdrew and item wrapped in faded blue velvet from the trunk's depths. "A man I once knew spoke often of sacrifice. Of necessary actions that carve hollows within us, spaces we carry throughout our lives." His fingers trembled slightly as he unwrapped the bundle.

"He had a daughter."

He knows. Of course, he knows. He ordered her here. Her eyes flickered around as if there were eyes prying at her life more than she could ever surmise. Her mouth suddenly grew parched. "Many soldiers do." She murmured with a leveled voice meant to hide the fact she was looking for exits before he could have any chance of striking her.

"This one would be about your age now." His eyes lifted, seeking hers with uncomfortable rigor. "He had the same way of standing… weight slightly forward, always ready to strike first. This was his" The cloth fell away, revealing a dagger with a worn handle of bone, its blade etched with the same crescent moon and star that adorned his sword. That adorned her mind these past days.

"A fine weapon," she managed, though her voice had thinned. The question remained if he usually carried the dagger on the way to war or if he just stole it from his keepsake. Laban rotated the dagger, presenting the hilt with the emblem peaking at her again. Possibly to pull some reaction from her, she couldn't tell.

"Kael would say a blade is only as true as the hand that wields it."

He wasn’t taking her faux nescience; his insistence instead made her stoic demeanor crack. And she stood sitting in the well of what it really was, remembering her father's hands guiding hers on practice swords, calluses rough against her small fingers.

"I knew a Kael once," she said, each word a careful step. "He taught me the value of keeping enemies at sword's length and allies closer." Was all she was willing to offer in return. But it was enough for recognition and uncertainty to war across antiquated features.

"He was a complex man. Brilliant tactician. Loyal to Midland until there were circumstances that complicated his service."

"Such as?"

The commander's gaze subsided to a void of speculation. Her question was enough of an admittance beyond sparse words much to her relunctance. "Politics. A king's favor is double-edged, as your White Hawk Commander may discover."

While listening, she haphazardly gathered the threads of her father's past, tangled and frayed, waiting to be unraveled. Her fingers itched to take the dagger, to claim this piece of him like she’s been doing all of her life. He was showing her this, not out of an attack, but to give her pieces without her knowing the full reason.

"Why this?" she pressed to know more, anything he could offer.

Laban wrapped the dagger as if sensing her famial instinct, plucking the memory away from her itchy palms.  "Because war changes the board entirely. After tomorrow's offensive, nothing will remain the same- for Midland, for the Hawks..." He fixed her with a penetrating stare. "For you."

It wouldn’t, and she knew this, not with the trajectory the Hawks were facing with the kingdom. But to what signifigance was this, she didn't know. Was he proposing justice in a similar sense as Griffith? A trumpet call shattered the moment, signaling the approach of the war council. Laban replaced the wrapped dagger in the trunk, turning the key that sounded like a door slamming shut to her.

"Guard your loyalties carefully,"  he said, his voice retiring as boots approached outside. "Kings rise and fall, but blood always endures."

The tent flap slapped open, admitting a procession of gilded noblemen playing at generals, their armor pristine and unmarked by genuine combat. Owen entered behind them, his expression carefully neutral as he took position at Laban's side. The swordswoman huddled to her assigned seat near the entrance, her mind louder than the cacophony of the tent. Across, Laban's gaze found hers amid the chaos of preparations. A fractional nod passed between them, acknowledgment of a conversation to be continued.The weight of her father's ghost pressed against her shoulders as the war council began. She stood straighter, feeling the eyes of the commanders measuring her worth.

"The Tudor forces have reinforced their eastern flank," announced a silver-haired general, his jeweled finger pressing into the parchment with unnecessary force.

"Their mercenary brigades arrived three days ago. Fifty thousand men, perhaps more."

Laban shook his head, the motion deliberate and contained.  "They lack discipline. Numbers without order are merely casualties waiting to happen."

"And you propose?" The question came from a corpulent nobleman whose armor appeared to have never experience actual combat, its decorative filigree untarnished by blood or blade appearing straight from the iron press.

"A tactical feint," Laban replied, eyes briefly flicking toward the swordswoman before returning to the map. "Draw their center forward while our fastest units sweep behind."  He moved sticks and stones over the map in display.

The corpulent nobleman scoffed. "Kael's old strategy? The same that failed?"

A hush fell over the tent at the name, like a sudden gust extinguishing candles. Commanders exchanged uneasy glances knowing full well not to mention the name themselves. The swordswoman ears perked while her eyes stilled over lined rocks acting as horseman over the map. She nearly grew deaf to what was being said while she struggled to remain still to the disgrace to her father's name.

"Failed?" Laban's voice remained even though his eyes wore steel. "History remembers Moravia differently than court gossip would suggest, Lord Percival."

Moravia? She remembered the battle from the coattails of whispers, but nothing more. It was a fatal loss for midland, that lost them crucial resources and tethered Midland to a much longer war with the Tudor. Owen cleared his throat, diffusing the tension as if it were a usual occasion.

"Perhaps we might focus on current tactics rather than historical debates. The White Hawks have proven most effective with similar maneuvers."

"Yes," drawled a gaunt nobleman with calculating eyes,

"Griffith's methods do seem remarkably familiar to those of us who served under Kael before his... disgrace."

His gaze slid toward the swordswoman with unsettling scrutiny. She stared at the man with nearly the same glare trying to deter him from picking at her any longer. "You there, Hawk. How long have you served your commander?"

She kept her eyes on his, a slight scowl set on her lips. "Since the beginning."

"The very beginning?" The corner of his lips twitched up. "How fortuitous for him to find such... talent."

Laban shifted subtly, placing himself between the nobleman and her line of sight. "Lord Lyle, the swordswoman serves as royal guard by edict. Her credentials are beyond question."

"Indeed." Lord Lyle tilted his head, studying her beyond what she could suspect. His gaze made her soul crawl beneath the mask out of her skin. She could feel the looming connections that advanced passed her own investigations. "There's something quite... familiar about her bearing. Wouldn't you agree, Commander Laban?"

"The Hawks are known for their distinctive training," Laban replied smoothly. "Now, regarding the eastern approach-"

The conversation redirected, but the swordswoman felt Lord Lyle's attention lingering, analytical and cold. She acted as though it didn't exist, much to its difficulty. As the council progressed, tactical discussions blurred into political posturing. She observed the power dynamics clinically, who deferred to whom, which commanders held genuine authority versus decorative titles. Throughout it all, Laban maintained a discerning distance from discussions of Kael, though she noted how the name caused ripples whenever mentioned. But the further time crawled, the more she suspected that each man was covering up the grave of history with Kael's past. To follow his steps, say his name, suggest a proxy about him was a plague that was quickly extinguished. She realized then, that Laban wasn't lying about Kael being influential to Midland just by the unspoken words alone.

"The White Hawk Commander arrives,"

announced a guard from outside, and the tent's atmosphere immediately transformed. Backs straightened, voices hushed, as if in preparation for royalty rather than a mercenary leader. She nearly scoffed at this cadence, knowing full well Griffith had groomed them to maintain this hamming. He entered smooth, inevitable, all edges concealed beneath liquid poise. The day's glare sliced through the tent flap, igniting his hair into a corona of white flame. She wondered if he’d timed his arrival to the sun’s angle, another calculated stroke in his theater of awe.

"Gentlemen." The word settled between courtesy and command. His gaze brushed the lords before anchoring to her, a fractional pause masquerading as accident. "Our forces stand ready, I trust?"

L ord Percival’s jowls quivered. "The Hawks keep to themselves rather than properly absorbing into the king's army. Hardly integrated."

"Yet they achieve results that conventional formations have not" Laban interjected, knuckles braced on the war table. "Commander Griffith, we were discussing the eastern approach. Lord Lyle suggests a frontal assault, while I favor a more... nuanced strategy."

Griffith glided forward, the air parting for him as if acknowledging his presence. His gloved finger traced the inked valleys of the map. She studied the performance with a slick glance.

"Frontal assaults are for generals who value spectacle over soldiers," he murmured, finger hooking westward in exactly the flanking arc Laban had sketched moments prior. "But if we let Tudor believe we’re that foolish…"

Lyle surged forward, goblet sloshing.  "That’s Laban’s exact stratagem-"

"-His Majesty’s victory,"  Griffith purred, eyes lifting. "Which we all desire, yes?"

The lord’s protest died mid syllable, choked by Griffith’s beatific smile. The swordswoman’s brow twinged. She’d seen that same gambit in her father’s journals- Feint acceptance, let rivals claim your plan as their folly. Griffith hadn’t even bothered to reword it. Laban’s map cracked when rolled in his palms. "Dawn, then. The Hawks will take vanguard position with the King's Fifth, while Lord Percival's forces secure the high ground to the west"

The council dispersed in murmured conversations and the scrape of armor. Griffith lingered, reviewing final details with Laban in artiface acting, though his presence seemed keen to intercept her before she could leave. The swordswoman remained at her post, unwilling to appear as though she were fleeing to begin with.

"You'll remain with the command unit tomorrow. Your primary duty is protection, not engagement."

"Coming here, I see the nobles haven't caught a glance of battle. They throw men out and expect to be safe-" she replied, frustration edging her voice.

"You're where you need to be,"  Griffith interjected, stepping closer. Something in his eyes warned against further protest- a silent communication honed through years of growing together.  "Laban specifically requested you."

The commander nodded with an opaque expression. "Your skills are needed here. The Tudor forces have infiltration units that specialize in command tent assassinations."

She wanted to argue further but could feel the larger currents at work beneath this assignment. Laban's earlier whisperings about her father lingered between them, unspoken but palpable. "As you wish," she conceded finally.

Griffith's gaze over her seemed to thaw. After a pause and nod, Laban withdrew from the tent, leaving her alone with the White Hawk. The silence between them stretched and for once in the entire day she couldn't look at a pair of eyes. His.

"Walk with me,"  it was less an invitation than a gentle command. "There are matters we should discuss before tomorrow's offensive."

The camp exhaled its metallic breath around them- clanging smiths, creaking wagons, the restless percussion of an army being honed. Griffith led her past rows of tents whose shadows stretched like they were grasping for solace in the day's light. She matched his pace but kept steps of length between them.

“You disagree with Laban’s decision.” Griffith’s statement floated between them, smoke from a distant cookfire curling around his words.

“I don't have a taste to protect men who waste lives like they do their gold.” She retorted, keeping her distance from him, feeling his nearness coil at her gut.

He paused beside a rack of pikes, their serrated edges catching the mid day sun. “Its for a greater purpose.” His gloved hand brushed a shaft, setting steel trembling.  "I suspected a connection," he continued, dropping his admittance while knowing that she could pick it up just by his mannerism alone. "Laban was requesting you specifically, without explanation. It seemed significant."

The swordswoman snapped a glare at him. He let her walk into this without a shred of information to protect herself. "You could have told me."

"Would you have approached him differently if I had? Some discoveries must be made directly, not prepared for."

She struggled against the logic of his reasoning, sensing manipulation beneath its surface yet unable to precisely identify where truth ended and calculation began. She knew at the very least he was holding back just from the breath between his words.

"What else do you know of my father?" she demanded.

Griffith gave her a grin that teased what she asked for and simply turned to pace through training grounds, expecting her to follow. "Fragments. Whispers. Court histories are intentionally obscured when they involve... complications."

"Complications?" She finally went into step with him, leaning closer to dip herself into any more answers.

"Kael served Midland brilliantly until he didn't," He whispered, flicking his gaze to her while they passed under the arc of the gate where war tents ended. "His tactics were revolutionary but eventually challenged traditional command structures. The king... grew uncomfortable with his influence."

She processed this, comparing it against the scattered memories of her childhood. Her father had never spoken of kings or courts outside of brief mentions of the swords he had to ship under the king's behest. He had seemed content with their isolated existence in that small village. Yet he had trained her in swordsmanship with the precision and discipline of a master, had taught her strategies that apparently rivaled those employed by royal commanders.

"There's more," she said, not a question but a certainty.

"There's always more," Griffith hummed a penetrating tone that hooked her under her skin. Shadows from trees mingled with his immaculate form as they lingered beneath branches. "History is layers upon layers, especially where power intersects with personal matters."

The way he emphasized "personal" raised bumps along her arms. "What aren't you telling me?" She growled, stepping forward as if to snatch the answers herself.

Instead of answering directly, Griffith reached toward her face with unsettling gentleness, brushing away her fight with his thumb against her cheek. The touch lingered, his gloved fingertips tracing the bags under her eyes she hadn't noticed.

"You're exhausted," he observed softly."These revelations, coming before battle..."

She stepped back, needing distance from his intoxicating nearness. It was only then that she realized she wasn't under the solace of nobles and midland knights even for how much she hated them. All she could hear were the distant clangs of metal. The sound bellowing in the air for how far they were, made her realize she was bamboozled.

"I've fought in worse conditions." She murmured, glancing at the distant camp, already retracing her steps with her eyes.

"Not tomorrow." Hardness grew over his voice, revealing the commander beneath the concerned friend. "You'll remain with Laban's unit, as ordered."

"As you ordered, right?" she corrected, frustration boiling over. "Using the king's seal doesn't change whose decision this was. You've kept me from the front lines since Julius' assassination. Since Zodd- Why?"

And then, it thundered again. Concern mixed with darker, more possessive revealings in his expression. It made her flinch enough to suddenly question herself.

"It's not hard grasping that I don't want you to die."

"More will die if I'm not there." she countered. "Its not the time to do this."

"Its the time beyond anything else" The admission seemed to surprise even him, protective compulsion bleeding through his maintained facade. "Things are different now. The stakes higher."

"Because we serve a king rather than ourselves?"

Griffith laugh was a soft danger that reverberated through the Swordswoman's chest like the distant thunder of hoofbeats before a charge. It wasn't the triumphant laugh of battlefield victory she had grown accustomed to, but something more intimate and unsettling, a sound meant only for her ears. "The king doesn't matter. Not truly."

The casual blasphemy stunned her into silence. Her mind- trained to assess threats, to calculate the arc of a blade and the tensing of muscles before an attack, suddenly found itself without purchase. Such words spoken anywhere else would constitute treason. Such words whispered beneath gnarled oak trees, with only the two of them present, constituted something far more dangerous.

Griffith stepped closer, crossing the careful distance she'd maintained between them with deliberate grace. The silver of his armor caught blades of the sun peaking from above. It made him appear as a creature of myth rather than flesh. The Swordswoman's heartbeat quickened; not from fear precisely, but from something adjacent to it. She was being stalked, cornered, led. And for some reason she yielded to it, yearned for it.

"What matters is what we mean to achieve. What I mean to achieve. For us all."

She could smell him now and her body remembered this scent from a thousand campfires, from the press of shoulders during strategic meetings, from those rare moments when wounds or exhaustion had forced physical proximity. Her spine met the solid resistance of bark, birds that were fluttering and cackling found themselves hushed. Trapped between wood and Griffith, she found her voice again.

"Us all? Or you?" The question emerged sharper than intended, edged with years of unspoken doubts.

"Is there a difference?" Blue eyes widened slightly with what appeared to be authentic confusion.

"Everything I've built has been for-"

 "- Your dream," she finished flatly, the familiar words tasting bitter on her tongue. "We know."

His eyes darkened momentarily, pupils expanding to consume the blue, and his breath caught audibly before he conquered whatever emotion had threatened to surface. "Not just mine anymore."

This wasn't Griffith the calculating commander whose charisma had built an army from street urchins and outcasts. This was something more. This was the boy who'd clutched her hand in the darkness after nightmares, whose eyes had burned with unshed tears when she'd taken her first wound in battle. Logic reasserted itself, her mind grasping desperately for rational objections like a drowning woman clutching at floating debris.

"You're contradicting yourself," she said, clinging to reason while her heartbeat thundered traitorously in her ears. "You want me safe yet you've placed me with commanders who'll be prime targets for Tudor assassins." She forced herself to maintain eye contact despite the magnetic pull of his gaze.

"They won't reach you. And you won't be alone. My personal guard will reinforce Laban's unit."

"I've already agreed to this. You already told me. You can stop this now." The words emerged harsher than intended, defensive in their vehemence.

"No," His gaze tracked the flush rising from the collar of her armor with unsettling precision, "you need purpose. Direction. Like we all do. You have a tendency of not following orders." His condescension ignited her temper, burning through the confusion and unwelcome desire.

"I have purpose. I follow myself!" Her voice dropped dangerously, the same tone that made recruits flinch during training. "I've had it since I was eight years old, watching Tudor raiders butcher my father!" She embraced the pain of it, using rage as a shield against Griffith's inexorable approach.

"And now you're what- throwing yourself into every battle hoping one will finally kill you?" His voice remained mild but contained multitudes beneath its measured surface, possessiveness above all. "I've watched you grow increasingly reckless. Taking risks no skilled warrior would consider. I know its because you feel caged, because you want to be free without knowing it means death." The growing disregard for her safety in battle, the almost welcoming embrace of peril, the strange calm that descended when death seemed imminent. These were private truths she'd buried beneath duty and discipline.

"You've been watching me?" The question emerged soft and uncertain, a dangerous vulnerability.

"Always." The admission was there in its naked and unsettling intensity.

"Since the day I found you half-dead beside your father's body, I've watched you. Protected you. Even from yourself. Like now." Logic crumbled before the unprocessed avidity in his tone. The Swordswoman's mind raced, calculating the implications of his words against actions spanning years. The careful assignments. The "coincidental" interventions during moments of danger.

"You're just saying that, I already agreed to watching nobles for you. You can stop it with this madness." she growled, hand instinctively moving toward her sword hilt. The familiar weight of it anchored her, a reminder of who she was beyond this confusion. "It wasn't like I needed it."

That fucking infuriating smile he held nearly sent her over the edge. "Says the girl I bandaged back to life. The one I taught to read by candlelight. The one who still wakes screaming from nightmares she thinks I don't hear. You often forget, is there a crime in reminding you that I'm here?"

Each word stabbed her deeper than any depth she could've known she held within herself. Rage surged through her system enough that in one fluid motion, practiced through thousands of drills and hundreds of battles, she drew her sword. The steel sang as it cleared its sheath. Not to strike, never that, but to establish boundaries his words were dissolving as surely as spring sun melts the legacy of winter.

"Stop it," she hissed, the blade steady between them despite the tremor threatening her hands. "Like you know what's best when you shuffle me around like some damn chess piece! You knew about my father and you never told me! You lied!"

She blinked and her cheeks felt warm. Not with blood but tears. She sniffled in a deep breath, quickly wiping streams with the back of her leather glove. Griffith didn't even flinch at the naked blade between them. Instead, he studied her with a tenderness that made her want to scream, to slash, to flee, anything to escape the unbearable intimacy of that gaze. His eyes held neither fear nor anger, but a profound understanding that felt more invasive than any physicality could ever give.

"Is that what you think?" he asked softly, voice pitched low enough that she had to strain to hear despite their proximity.

"What else would you call it?" The question emerged ragged, revealing more vulnerability than she'd intended while tears kept sprouting.

He moved with that sublime grace that had always defined him, sidestepping the blade as if it were merely an inconvenient branch in his path rather than finely honed steel capable of ending life. Before her reflexes could respond, he was inside her guard, one hand gripping her sword wrist with surprising strength while the other snaked around her waist, pulling her against him in a travesty of intimate embrace. Her body went on its own without her, responding to his touch with a confusing mixture of combat readiness and submission that shamed. His heat penetrated her light armor, burning against her skin with impossible intensity. She could feel the contours of him even through iron, the controlled power in his frame that most opponents underestimated to their doom.

"I'd call it protection," he whispered against her ear, his breath causing goose bumps to erupt across her neck and cascade down her spine in a wave of unwelcome sensation. "I'd call it necessity. Beyond anything you can grasp. I'm saving your life, I'm giving you justice. You'll see when you need to."

The Swordswoman struggled but his grip proved implacable. Years of battlefield coordination had taught him every weakness in her defense, every hesitation in her attacks. They had fought side by side too long, studied each other too thoroughly. He knew how much pressure to apply to her wrist to make the muscles spasm, sending her carefully maintained sword clattering to dirt with humiliating ease.

"Let me go," she demanded, yelling as if the birds could save her now.

Instead, his arms tightened, transforming restraint into a true embrace. For a disorienting moment, she glimpsed the cost of his perpetual control, what made his body tremble to press against a door of suave and poise. This physical revelation stunned her more effectively than his words had. Griffith, always composed, always measured, now vibrated with barely contained emotion that transferred from his body to hers like heat from a forge.

"I can't," he murmured, and the falter in his breath made her eyes go wide. "That's what you refuse to understand. I can't let you go."

If Griffith had done this to Charlotte or Casca at any point to tip his favor, she could understand why they've been duped. Even herself.

"You don't mean that, your charming me like you do any woman you need something from-" she managed, though uncertainty weakened her protest to near meaninglessness.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze and there was a hunger there that had nothing to do with strategy or ambition or even desire in its conventional sense. It spoke of consumption. Of being stitched together, year by year, thread by ceaseless thread.

"I have never lied about what you mean to me. What you've always meant."

The confession emerged unvarnished, stripped of the eloquence that typically characterized his speech. His face hovered inches from hers, close enough that she could count individual eyelashes. Logic screamed warnings in her mind, reminding her of his manipulations, his secrets, the way he'd used her loyalty while withholding crucial truths about her father's death. The pragmatic warrior who had survived countless battles by clear thinking and emotional discipline demanded she step away, reclaim her sword, reestablish the boundaries his touch had obliterated.

Yet beneath that pragmatic voice, instinct responded to his nearness, the part of her that had always recognized him as essential, as necessary as her sword arm. This deeper recognition transcended reason, existing in the realm of bone-deep certainty where no logic could penetrate.

"There would be no dream worth having."

The admission emerged as if torn from him, each word a physical struggle.

"No castle, no kingdom, no victory that would matter if you weren't-"

He stopped, struggling for words that had always come so easily to him before audiences both noble and common.

"If you weren't there to see it."

Her mind struggled to process implications to his confession, to reconcile this vulnerable admission with the man who had built an army through sheer force of will and ambition. Griffith had always been the visionary, the one whose dream sustained them all through blood and hardship. To hear him suggest that dream hinged on her presence seemed fundamentally wrong- a reversal of the natural order that had defined their relationship since childhood.

Yet the tremor in his hand was real. The rapid pulse at his throat was real. The raw vulnerability in his eyes couldn't be manufactured, not even by Griffith's considerable talents for deception.

"You never said," She managed with a softness unrecognized by the usual.

"How could I? When I barely understood it myself?" His logic mirrored her own pragmatic reasoning so precisely that she nearly laughed.

"I need you alive," he continued, and she could feel the honesty. "Not just as a warrior-"

She never learned what else she was to him. A sudden commotion erupted nearby- shouts and the clash of metal suggesting a skirmish had broken out in the eastern sector of the camp. Griffith's head snapped toward the sound, commander's instincts overtaking personal revelation with the immediacy of a sword being drawn. Whatever dream this was, it was shattered immiediately. The Swordswoman stepped away, Griffith's arms releasing her with obvious reluctance. They stood facing each other, the air felt like water- thick with more and half-formed confessions that hung suspended like dust motes in the sunlight.

"Go," she said, retrieving her fallen sword with a rigid frame she slipped back on. The familiar weight in her hand made her fully wake up from their earlier closeness. "Your army needs its commander."

For a heartbeat, Griffith's composure completely vanished. Frustration brewed at the seams of him, revealing the cost of the interruption more clearly than words could have. Then, with visible effort, he reassembled his calm facade, layer by careful layer, like a man donning armor for battle.

"This isn't finished,"  He said in an intimate murmur that threaten to have her slip from reality again. "After the campaign, we will continue this conversation. And I will tell you everything I know about your father when it is the absolute best time."  He stepped closer once more, close enough that she could feel his breath against her lips. "No more secrets between us. I promise."

Before she could respond, she felt this new warmth on her lips that stilled her breath. His hair tickling her cheek and it struck her that this was a kiss. A brief, fierce contact that sent electricity cascading down her spine and pooling in her core. Her body responded with a surge of heat beyond desire, becoming spiritual in its intensity.  It was like she discovered water for the first time, or wine possibly. Either way she wanted to inhale it rather than drink it. but he was gone, striding toward the commotion with the confident grace of a man who expected the world to bend to his will. She stood frozen, fingers unconsciously touching her lips where the ghost of his kiss lingered.

No more secrets, he had promised. But as she retrieved her fallen sword, wiping dirt from its polished surface, she couldn't silence the voice of pragmatic doubt whispering that Griffith's promises, like his kisses, might serve purposes beyond what they appeared. That voice had kept her alive through countless battles, had guided her through the treacherous landscape of army politics and noble intrigues.

Yet beneath that voice of caution, another certainty took root, a recognition that whatever emerged from their interrupted conversation would irrevocably transform them both. For better or worse, the carefully maintained distance between commander and soldier, between dream and dreamer, had collapsed into something far more dangerous and exhilarating.

The Swordswoman sheathed her blade, feeling the familiar shink as hilt met scabbard. Then, she locked away the tumult of emotions Griffith had awakened, storing them for later examination when warfare wasn't required. But as she strode from the trees toward the growing sounds of conflict of the camp, the ghost of his touch lingered, a phantom weight against her skin that no amount of tactical focus could entirely banish. Little did she know it would brand her deeper than his thumb on her tongue.

And there, amid the gathering roar of war, came a silly epiphany- a stray thought she would've otherwise dismissed quickly...

Probably she was wrong- delusional maybe. No- he had come here to convince her... But- wait, she's long been convinced, she's long followed his orders, however may the relunctance in her cling to her actions. He still pressed to be near her after every encounter.

yes, it was a stupid thought- so stupid, it felt shaming to think about..... that maybe Griffith wasn't using charm and closeness to get through Midland politics and warfare. That Midland Politics and war served as a means for closeness.... with her.

Chapter Text

The rising cacophony from the camp finally shattered the buzzing around her mouth. Shouts, the scream of sharpening steel, the frantic neighing of warhorses. Reality swallowed her whole, a brutal tide drowning the nascent embers of that fragile hope. The swordswoman broke from the treeline’s embrace, sprinting towards the maelstrom. Armor clanked with quick steps. She saw him almost immediately- Griffith, issuing orders while holding onto his calm. He turned as she approached, eyes finding hers across the churning sea of men and steel. The intensity from their encounter still simmered there.

“The eastern flank is faltering,” he stated, his voice cutting through to her, devoid of any hint of their earlier intimacy, yet somehow carrying its weight. “Laban’s strategy holds, but the Tudors press hard. The King’s Fifth needs support at the vanguard. You’re with me. We reinforce the front.”

Not the command post. Not guarding nobles. The front line. With him. The reversal of events felt succulent with fierce wild joy that surged through her. It fried whatever confusion was within. This was where she belonged

“Understood,” her voice clipped.

They moved together then, a whirlwind of silver and steel cutting through the ranks. Reaching the front, the true face showed itself. Mud churned with blood, the air thick with screams and the sticky coppery stench. Tudor soldiers, emboldened by numbers, crashed against the thinning line of the King’s Fifth like a relentless tide. The Swordswoman drew her blade naturally. It was as if a dam within her had burst. Years of discipline, hours of relentless training, the gnawing ache of being sidelined. Now she was feral. She ran forward, hands tight in her hilt as she swung at the side of a knight caught mid swing with his war hammer. Her sword rattled against chainmail, dulling a curdled scream beneath it. She twisted her upper half further to sink the edge of her blade deeper before stepping out to relinquish it from the hilt of his flesh. The swordswoman didn't have time to fully see the knight slump to the ground before she heard the whirl beside her. She side stepped, sabre slanted to arm herself as biceps hardened, taking the brunt of a long sword head on. Soles of her boots skid against pebbled rocks while teeth grit.

“Fucking bastard-” she snarled before falling forward, swords singing together as the sliver of eyes beneath the Tudor Knight's helmet widening at her bold move. Her sword came through his chest. She stepped forward with more strength. When warmth spilled over her tightened fingers, the last gasp parted from him and his sword slipped to dirt was when she stepped back to let his body fall. Two. Men fell before her like wheat before the scythe, their surprise often the last expression on their faces.

From the slight elevation where he coordinated the flanking maneuver, Laban watched, flinty wide eyes open with an echoed expression of bewilderment. He saw speed and the almost contemptuous ease with which she dispatched seasoned Tudor warriors. But more than that, he saw the ghost. It was Kael reborn, Kael’s ferocity unleashed without the older man’s weary caution. The sheer volume of her kills was mounted with every twist and arc of her blade She spun, avoiding a clumsy axe swing. Her proximity to freedom felt close to an earlier sensation. A whisper from beneath oak branches.

It was enough.

A hulking figure, sensing the momentary lapse, roared and charged. His movements were surprisingly fast for his size, his massive sword descending in a whistling swing aimed directly at her neck. She saw the rusted chainmail, and hatred burning in his eyes. Sunlight glinting off descending steel.

Instead, silence slammed down where the clang of impact should have been.

Griffith stood where the knight had been seconds before. His sabre was clean, yet the Tudor knight lay crumpled at his feet, neck severed in the way he attempted on her, eyes rolled up in their sockets. He turned to her, and the Swordswoman braced herself for the expected fury. Instead, he had placid concern etched over his features. The serenity wasn't coldness; it was deeper. His azure eyes scanned her with swift and thorough assessment for injury, devoid of panic or overt anger.

“Are you unharmed?”

She could only nod with a tight throat. The adrenaline drain leaving her suddenly weak-kneed. Sheer absence of his anticipated rage was more disorienting than the near-death experience itself. It didn't compute. It felt wrong.

He stepped closer, his gloved hand gently, briefly, resting on her shoulder pauldron. Intention was entirely unknown.  "Stay alert," he gently patted her shoulder in a comradic gesture, "The battle turns. We press forward."

Then he was moving again, directing the charge, voice ringing with clarion command. The touch on her shoulder burned hot even through her armor plate. His calm, attentiveness, kindness- it sliced deeper than the Tudor’s blade could have. She watched Griffith become a beacon of silver against the chaos with his commands slicing through the battle like whip cracks. The echo of his touch lingered, more potent than the sweat cooling beneath her armor. His unexpected calm was a puzzle piece that refused to fit, leaving an unsettling vacancy where fury should have been. Shaking off the disquiet, she raised her blade again.

But the surge had already broken. The Tudor charge, emboldened by their initial success against the strained King’s Fifth, seemed to lose its impetus with the Hawks joining the vanguard. Where moments before there had been a desperate scuffle, now the Tudor were sputtering like dying embers. The Hawks flanked the remaining pockets of Tudor soldiers. And the cries of battle shifted, thinning cries and Shouts into chirping buzzards. The Swordswoman advanced, picking off isolated opponents, but the frenzy was gone, replaced by the grim task of cleanup. Mud sucked at her boots as she moved through the wreckage of the failed assault. The sweet adrenaline ebb leaving behind a weariness and the hollow ache of her earlier confusion.

Laban strode onto the churned battlefield from his command position. He stopped near the Swordswoman, nodding towards the impressive tally of Tudor dead surrounding her position. The ghost he’d seen in her movements was now evidenced by the sheer destruction she'd wrought.

“Good work, soldier,” he rumbled, the compliment gruff but sincere, carrying the weight of a commander’s rare approval. “You fight like him. Fast. Decisive. You honor his memory with that blade.”

“Hopefully I'm not just a ghost of my father in your eyes.” She replies, flicking stray blood onto mud before wiping the rest away with the purple cape of Tudor knight severed in half. Entrials gleamed from the sun above. Breathy laughter cracks behind her.

“This wasn’t a probing attack, too reckless for their main force right now. These weren’t frontline grunts. Look at their gear, what’s left of it. Better quality. Desperate, maybe, but skilled.” He spat onto the blood soaked ground while he focused on the narrow point of where the Tudor came between tall trees. “I’d wager they were a suicide squad. Sent ahead specifically to try and decapitate Midland command before the main offensive even begins tomorrow.”

His assessment resonated, clicking another piece into place. A targeted assassination attempt on the leadership. It explained the ferocity and seeming disregard for their own survival. And it underlined the danger of her post. Though she hadn't felt in danger even with cool steel swiping for her neck earlier.

“Figures.” She muttered, eyes narrowed at the blood seeped onto the crevice of her hilt as she tried to rub it away.

Guts had emerged from the across the field, his amor slick with blood. A scar knitting at his forearm. “West’s secure.”

Laban had given him a nod, “Good.”

She expected there to be a conversation between them when there wasn't any to be had. Guts lingered, his silence heavier than questions. Though he spoke anyway.

“You alright?”

She hadn't answered at first, believing he was speaking to Laban, but when the silence fell- she turned to meet their gazes pointed at her. The concern unnerved her more than his usual indifference. She hadn't imagined him being concerned, much less voicing it. She bristled, armor suddenly suffocating and hot like it wasn't winter’s eve approaching. “Fine. The ambush just… caught me off guard.”

His dark eyes held hers longer than she would surmise. She swore he saw it all. The distraction and guilt, the taste still haunting her lips. Guts’ dark eyes didn’t waver. The skepticism wasn't aggressive, just a quiet, heavy certainty that settled between them like dust after an explosion. He shifted his weight, the movement seeming to draw the very shadows of the alley deeper around them.

A deep hum settled through him in response, “I saw some of the auxiliary tents were damaged. Now that the perimeter is secure, come and help set up replacements.”

For some reason it didn't feel like a simple request. She paused first and then fell into step with him.

“Do your due diligence.” Laban said as a parting to them both and she realized his hovering sounded more like fanfare than the standard observation. It was a few steps on, then she saw him point vaguely back towards the treeline where she and Griffith had emerged separately moments ago.

“Seemed like you had other things on your mind. Saw you come out of the woods after Griffith did.” His comment lashed at her without him intending to, making her flinch. He’d seen them. Not together, maybe, but the implication was clear, hanging thick and undeniable in the air. Her constructed excuse crumbled between them, leaving her exposed. And he wasn't finished. This time he was stripped of pretense, “And when the attack hit near the command tent while Gaston was rallying the guard- I was patrolling the perimeter. Heard someone crying.” He looked uncomfortable saying it.

“Sounded like you.”

Crying? She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged, only a dry click in her throat. Her mind scrambled, searching for denial, deflection, anything- but Guts’ focus on her subtle trembled form offered no escape. Before the crushing weight of exposure could fully snuff her, her eyes followed trails of smoke tangling above scraps of charred canvas, fragments of what structure they were. She subliminally took the opportunity to ignore Guts’ observations, sifting through the debris to salvage whatever survived.

Guts kicked away a beam now made of charcoal, easily snapping it from the force.

“Looks like eight.” He mused.

Her eyes briefly flicked to the scene as she gathered stray daggers hidden beneath torn cloth, “Nine. I'm sure we have a surplus at the supply carts.”

He grunted at the worse circumstances. The swordswoman stood with a dagger, an old cloak, a sword and a bed roll that managed to survive nearly unscathed. She sighed, finally managing to gather her wits to answer his question before she went rummaging for items in the dirt.

“One of the commanders knew my father. I got emotional. It was beyond me.” She whispered beneath the veneer of Midland knights and Hawks scattering to their duties alike.

The dueler didn't turn to look at Guts before she faced the direction of the line of carts. “Could use a hand bringing supplies for nine tents.” with that, he followed. By the time they had made it eastward, the supply carts themselves looked trampled and raided. She stepped faster, more determined to follow clues of smoke curling in the air, leaving Guts behind. When she rounded for the supply cart, she saw Corkus pinching the bridge of his nose, Pippin pulling out tainted canvas from the din of a burnt cart with arrows sputtered from it. They must've been chewing through the supply carts first right under the Hawk's noses.

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you!" Rickert panted, addressing the Swordswoman, his eyes wide.

“Yes, Rickert?” She asked.

“You saw your tent, haven't you?”

The Swordswoman's tired look was enough of an answer to him. He managed carefully through an unsteady pant. Poor boy must've been running around in charge of site management with dwindled resources by now.

“Well, the supply carts have been torched along with the military grade tents. We had another set only to find those were torched too along with the weaponry carts”

The Swordswoman stared, words barely registering past the ringing in her ears that frustration began to chime. Rickert, mistaking her stunned silence for simple shock at the loss, hurried on, relaying his orders.

“Commander Griffith heard about it already. He said…” he lowered his voice conspiratorially as he stepped forward, “well, he’s allocated you space in his command tent for now.”

She must've been glaring daggers at him, her eyes parched from her focus on the young mercenary. Rickert shifted nervously, fumbling with his vambraces out of a nervous tick, clearly reciting a justification he didn’t fully grasp himself. Corkus and Pippin found themselves in the vortex of his words, stepping closer to eavesdrop.

“Said since you’re guarding the nobles anyway, and his tent is right near their command post. It's just practical. Saves setting up a new one right away, keeps you close to your duty station. The other Hawks are setting up further back, consolidating…” Rickert trailed off as he finally registered the profound, almost identical looks of stunned shock from everyone nearby. The Swordswoman felt the blood drain from her face. Griffith’s tent. His tent. After what transpired just moments ago? The world tilted, the ground unstable beneath her boots.

Guts’ reaction was a mirror of her own internal hell, but reflected through a different lens. His eyes widened fractionally. Corkus, standing in his simmering resentment, looked utterly poleaxed. His jaw dropped, eyes bulging, sputtering incoherently for a moment before raw outrage contorted his features.

“His tent? Are you kidding me!?”

The accusation of favoritism, always boiling, now exploded into full blown certainty in his furious gaze.

“Why?” The word clawed its way out, desperate and ragged. She grabbed Rickert’s arm, ignoring the startled look on his face, needing an anchor in the suddenly pitching world. “There must be something else- Officers’ quarters, requisitioned space. It’s safer to have separate tents, surely?” The plea sounded weak even to her own ears, laced with an impropriety she couldn't fully articulate but felt viscerally.

Rickert gently disentangled his arm, his expression sympathetic but firm.  “I’m sorry, but the fire took the main supply carts- the ones with the spare command grade canvas. Everything’s gone. Griffith’s orders were clear. He said you should take it up with him directly if you had objections. Look, I need to help allocate what supplies we do have left.” With a final, apologetic glance, he turned and hurried away towards the smoking remnants of the supply line, leaving her adrift. Pippin had stopped rummaging for items, his glance seemingly mirroring Guts'.

Take it up with him directly. The suggestion was laughable. The near-miss in battle didn’t seem to phase him for this reason.

“Great.” She sighed to herself, her knees growing wobbly with frustration. She kept her face tilted to the earth, afraid that if otherwise, the heat on her face would be seen through her skin.

“Unbelievable,” Corkus sneered, breaking the stunned silence. His gaze dripped with envious contempt. “Of course she gets to share the White Hawk’s tent. Biggest one in the whole damn army, probably got feather pillows and silk sheets. While the rest of us are crammed five to a leaky canvas!

“Corkus,” Guts’ voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "You’re dismissed from guard duty. Go help Rickert with the supplies.”

Corkus sputtered, indignant, but one look at the unyielding set of Guts’ jaw and the dangerous stillness in his eyes seemed to convince him. Muttering curses under his breath, he stalked off, defeated. She could feel Guts’ eyes on her as she stared down into the dirt with items balled in her arms.

“Do you need help carrying them?” his voice slivered through her grievances.

“I should be good. Thanks.” she gave a weary smile at him, trying to cover her growing angst. Pippin and Guts had stared at her enought to make her jolt from her place. "I'll just put this at my new tent." Before Guts could stop her she had already weaved herself through knights and mercanaries.

On the way to the noble’s tents, her eyes scanned the command area, settling on a large tent where muffled voices hummed within its hearth, indicating a debriefing was underway. Griffith was inside, undoubtedly charming the Midland commanders in the serenades they needed to hear. But standing just outside the flap, patient and observant, was Owen, the Toumel Knight leader. She haphazardly paced into Griffith’s tent, noting the spacious area. More- the smell of him before she placed her items down on the ground. Corkus may have not been lying. Though, the dueler didn't have the time to see for herself. she was quick to Catch Owen before the nobles did, slipping out from the tent to dart directly for him. He could at least tactically give answers, his non bias reasoning may be more clarifying than her gut deep down assuming that this wasn't coincidental. If anything, Midland could fetch her a spare tent.

“Sir Owen,” she began as she approached, keeping her voice level.

He turned, offering a polite, if slightly weary, smile.  “Ah, the Hawk herself. Settling in?” 

“A question, if I may,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. “Midland command- are there absolutely no spare officer’s tents available? Any reserves at all?”

Owen’s smile faded slightly, replaced by genuine sympathy.  “None, I’m afraid. The fire was thorough, hit the primary stores hard. Everything extra went up in smoke. Why do you ask? Does this have to do with Commander Griffith lending you space in his pavilion?”

So, it was already common knowledge among the command staff. She felt like she was being stripped of her skin and exposed for everyone to see. “I understand the necessity, but I worry it could be politically unwise for him. Sharing quarters with a soldier, even one under his command. Nobles gossip.” She offered the concern as a plausible, detached observation, hiding the frantic personal objections churning beneath.

“Commander Griffith seems remarkably unconcerned with such whispers,” he observed dryly. He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision, lowering his voice slightly.

“Look, I don’t wish to alarm you, but Commander Laban is my closest friend. We spoke after you met him this morning. Griffith likely offered his tent as a form of protection. Your father- he was a significant figure, and at one point, a political enemy, or at least a perceived one, to certain factions within Midland.”

The Swordswoman stiffened, her blood running cold despite the lingering warmth on her lips. Laban knew. Owen knew. How many others? This offered a potential logic, albeit a disturbing one. Protection through proximity, control disguised as shelter. It fit Griffith’s pattern.

“But,” Owen frowned, tapping his chin,“that’s the odd part. From what Laban recalls, and from the histories I know- very few of the current high command actually saw Kael in person, especially not near the end. Which makes Lord Lyle’s comment earlier, his claiming you looked familiar rather surprising. Almost impossible.”he trailed off.

The Swordswoman seized on the doubt. “Lord Lyle looked old enough to confuse my face with any number of soldiers he’s seen over the decades,” she countered, perhaps too quickly. “Memory plays tricks.”

Owen shrugged, though his eyes remained troubled. “Yet, Laban seemed quite unsettled by it, Lyle’s apparent recognition. Staying close to Griffith, within the commander’s inner circle might be best. I say this to reason you, as you came here looking for answers presumably.”

Hidden in plain sight. Or trapped in the center of the storm. With Griffith, she suspected, there was rarely a difference.

"But why?" she pressed Owen, lowering her voice, needing to understand the underlying current pulling her into these dangerous waters. "If Laban knows who my father was and the potential complications… why bring me here? Why involve me with the high command? Wouldn't it be safer for everyone, including him, to keep me at arm's length, or buried within the Hawk ranks?" Why wasn't he trying to oust her, leverage her past, or simply warn Griffith away?

Owen shifted his weight, his gaze sweeping the perimeter as if ensuring their conversation remained private. His answer, when it came, was coated in the smooth patina of courtly diplomacy, yet felt oddly hollow.

"Commander Laban values competence above pedigree." Owen added, a slight emphasis on the word, "though, trusting the known quantity, even one with a complex past, is often safer than relying on the shifting allegiances and whispered poisons of nobility. They backstab each other for sport.”

His answer felt practiced and evasive. It didn't fully explain the personal risk Laban seemed to be taking, nor the almost paternalistic way he’d handled the dagger. Something was missing. But Owen wasn't finished. He leaned fractionally closer, his next words delivered with a quietness that prickled the hairs on her neck.

"And between us… it wasn't Griffith who initially pushed for your placement here."

The Swordswoman froze. "What?"

"Laban utilized the King's formal decree quite deliberately, commander Griffith, initially, seemed less than enthusiastic about you being detached from the main Hawk force and placed directly within this command circle."

He clarified. That clarification punched the air from her lungs. Griffith hadn't wanted her here? He hadn't lied about the King's decree being the impetus, at least not entirely. But his reluctance. Now, it contradicts everything. She stared at Owen until he shifted uncomfortably. There was no reason for him to lie about this.

"I… see," she murmured, the words feeling inadequate. There were no other tents. Laban had insisted she be here. Griffith, after initial reluctance, had seized the chance created by the fire to ensure she stayed, right next to him. There was no escape hatch, no alternative lodging. She had to stay in his tent. The realization settled with the cold finality of a dungeon door slamming shut.

And then, slicing through the confusion, came the memory of Griffith’s voice in morning dew months back:

"Was it less confusing when we were younger? Sharing tents, telling each other stories? Was it better when we did those things?"

Sharing tents. How convenient. How perfectly, suspiciously convenient that circumstances had now forced them back into that childhood intimacy, the very state he had wistfully recalled back then.

A fleeting thought surfaced- Casca. Could she share with Casca? But the idea died almost instantly. Casca commanded Hawk units, her tent would be positioned with the main encampment, likely miles from this command nerve center where the nobles and generals huddled. It was logistically impossible, reinforcing the stark reality of her situation.

A humorless scoff escaped her lips, "Funny," The word came tight with irony, "I accused him of engineering this, of wanting me here all along. He didn't exactly fight me on it." in fact he leaned into it.

Owen chuckled softly, a sound of genuine amusement mixed with a hint of resignation. He clearly recognized the intricate dance of power and personality between the Swordswoman and the White Hawk, even if he didn't grasp all the steps.

"Well, Navigating Commander Griffith's motivations seems a campaign strategy unto itself. He may have simply recognized the inevitable once Laban invoked the King."

The Swordswoman let out a weary sigh, rubbing her temples against the burgeoning headache the day’s revelations had induced. The tent flap behind Owen remained closed, muffled voices still audible from within. "How long do you expect their debriefing to last?" she asked, the edge returning to her voice. Patience felt like a foreign currency she couldn't afford right now.

Owen glanced back at the command tent, then back at her, a teasing glint in his eyes.  "Impatient to move into your new accommodations, are we?"

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, armor plates groaning faintly in protest. Her jaw set stubbornly. "I think I've had quite enough surprises for one day, Sir Owen. Knowing what comes next feels like a necessary tactical advantage at this point."

He turned slightly, lowering his voice again as if sharing a confidence that bordered on impropriety.

"Regarding Laban, he likely made some promise to Kael. Years ago."

The Swordswoman's breath hitched. A promise? To her father? "What kind of promise?"

“I do not know. Laban guards his past closely. But Kael saved his life once, perhaps more than once. Debts like that, among men like them, are not easily forgotten, regardless of politics or kings."

This added another layer of complexity, a motive rooted in honor rather than strategy or manipulation. But it still didn't explain everything. "How did he even know it was me?" she pressed, the question burning. "My father kept his family life separate. How could Laban possibly recognize me after all these years, amidst thousands of soldiers?"

Owen hesitated, his gaze flicking towards the royal crypts, unseen beyond the camp bustle. "He told me… it was at the funeral procession. For Julius and Adonis."

The Swordswoman frowned, trying to recall the chaotic, grief stricken event.

"The queen noticed the disturbance. Laban was standing quite near her then, part of the immediate royal escort. He said when you looked up, after bowing, he saw your face clearly for the first time. And he knew. Instantly."

Stunned silence descended again. The funeral. That humiliating moment under the queen’s glare, Pippin hauling her back. Laban had been right there. He had seen her face, recognized Kael’s daughter in the midst of royal mourning, and said nothing until this morning. A familiar figure detached itself from the command tent, gliding towards them with that distinctive grace.

Griffith was approaching. And the fragile truce brokered by Owen’s partial revelations felt suddenly, terrifyingly inadequate. She remained quiet, caught in the crosscurrents of relief, suspicion, and unwelcome guilt over her earlier certainty about his motives.

“Sir Owen,” Griffith greeted him with a nod, his smile polite but brief, a necessary acknowledgment before turning to his true focus. His azure gaze settled on the Swordswoman. “Finished with your duties here?”

She felt Owen’s presence beside her keenly, a reminder of their conversation, of the truths and half-truths exchanged. The guilt reveberated. She had accused Griffith, raged at him, based on assumptions that were, apparently, incomplete. She kept her eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Griffith’s shoulder, unable to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” she managed, her voice subdued.

“Good,” Griffith said, his tone smooth, accepting her quietude without comment.  “The command tent is being struck for the evening redistribution. You should move what little remains of your gear to my pavilion now. I managed to salvage a spare bedroll from the secondary supplies; I’ll take that. You can have the cot.”

His offer of the cot, the prime sleeping spot felt like a means to butter her up. It wrong-footed her again, making her earlier fury feel churlish. They began walking beside one another- keen not to touch, moving through the bustling camp towards the large, distinctively marked tent that served as Griffith's mobile headquarters. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sounds of the recovering army.

Finally, the pressure became too much. She cleared her throat, the sound small in the open air. “Griffith…” She paused, struggling for the words. “About earlier… my accusations about Laban’s request… I apologize.” The admission felt like swallowing stones, heavy and unpleasant, but necessary.

He glanced at her, and surprise had caught him before he wiped it away. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” His dismissal was effortles. “I told you it was the King’s decree, invoked by Laban. I knew you would eventually see the situation for what it was, without my needing to force the perspective.” He hadn't lied, not technically, but he had allowed her anger to run its course, knowing the facts, when revealed, would land with greater impact. He had let her discover it herself, maintaining his position of quiet authority and deeper knowledge, even in reconciliation.

"How long is this arrangement likely to last?"

Griffith glanced sideways, the setting sun gleaming in the azure of his eyes.  "Until the next supply convoy arrives with replacement command tents. Could be a week. Could be a month, depending on Tudor movements along the supply lines and the King's priorities."

A month. The word hung in the air between them. A month of sharing this confined space, of unavoidable closeness, of navigating the treacherous territory they'd entered under the oak trees. Slow heat crept up her neck. She looked away, focusing intently on the rhythmic crunch of their boots on the path, suddenly finding the pattern of trodden grass fascinating.

Then, another question surfaced, nagging at the edges of her understanding. "Owen mentioned… you initially objected to Laban’s request for me to guard the command unit." She risked a glance at his profile, seeking confirmation. "Why? If you knew Laban… knew the potential connection?"

Griffith didn’t break stride. "Because, I knew how you would react. Being confined to a command post, guarding nobles while the main battle rages elsewhere. You'd feel caged. Pent up." He paused, letting the accurate, if unflattering, assessment land."And when I suspected Laban's insistence stemmed from his past ties to your father, I objected even more. It adds layers of complexity I couldn't predict or control. Placing you in the center of that felt unnecessarily risky."

"Understandable then." She concurred for a rare once.

He stopped just outside the entrance to his large, well-appointed tent. The canvas glowed warmly from the lantern light within finally facing to the darkness showing itself over the lands. "Now, circumstances have changed. Laban's motivations, Lord Lyle's scrutiny, the general instability after Julius' death… the safest place for you is close. Where I can ensure your protection directly." A faint, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. "Frankly, I don't trust the average Midland knight or even most of these noble commanders to adequately defend a potted plant, let alone someone as… prone to attracting trouble as you are."

"Fair point," she conceded quietly, turning away from him. Her attention snagged on the pitiful state of her bed roll, cloak, secondary sword and dagger. The scorched fabric, the pervasive smell of ash. It felt like a tangible representation of her own precarious situation. She picked it up, scowling as she tried to shake out the worst of the soot and smooth the stiffened wool, focusing intently on the futile task. It gave her something to do, something to look at besides the man sharing her enforced sanctuary.

Behind her, the distinct sounds began: the click and scrape of buckles being undone, the sigh of leather straps loosening, the soft thud of discarded pauldrons hitting a trunk lid. Griffith was removing his armor. Piece by piece, the barrier of polished steel that defined the White Hawk was coming down, leaving behind the man beneath. An involuntary tension coiled in her shoulders. She kept her back resolutely turned, fiddling with the cloak, pretending to inspect a particularly stubborn scorch mark, feigning difficulty in balancing her sword against the campaign table – anything to avoid acknowledging the intimacy of the sounds, the vulnerability inherent in shedding one's defenses.

"I'm going to the lake to wash off the grime of battle," Griffith's voice broke the silence, "The water will be cold, but it's necessary."  She could almost feel his gaze on her back. "If you feel unsafe going alone later, given everything… you're welcome to come now. There's safety in numbers, even for bathing."

Her cheeks, already warm from their earlier proximity, felt blistering. The suggestion hung in the air, seemingly innocent, practical even, yet loaded with unspoken implications after everything that had transpired. Bathing. Together. Griffith had bathed in lakes and rivers alongside the entire Band countless times over the years. When they were younger, scrambling through streams after dusty spars, it hadn't meant anything more than rinsing off sweat and mud. There had been an easy camaraderie, an absence of sin born of shared hardship and childhood familiarity.

But things were different now. She was different. He was different. He wasn't the lean boy she’d wrestled with anymore; he was Griffith, the commander, sculpted muscle and unnerving grace, a man whose touch now ignited far more than simple friendship. The kiss. That brief pressure of his lips had irrevocably changed the landscape between them. The thought of seeing him stripped of his armor, of being near him in that state of vulnerability after that… it felt like bathing with her soul and secrets out from her body. Too intimate. She hadn't consciously bathed near him, not like that, since they were well into their teens, since the undeniable realities of their maturing bodies had erected invisible but potent barriers. She hadn't seen him fully unclothed since then.

"We haven't-" Her voice caught, forcing herself to turn and face him, needing to establish distance. He stood now only in his linen undershirt and breeches, his armor neatly stacked. Even partially clothed, the lean power of his build was evident. "...bathed together like that since we were young, Griffith."

He met her gaze, and it was too hard for her to read what was in them. He nodded slowly.

"True." He didn't press more than that. "If you feel uncomfortable, perhaps ask Casca to accompany you later. She’ll likely be heading down with some of the other women."

His easy acceptance somehow felt more cutting than persistence would have. It made her feel… childish. Unreasonable. Yet the boundary felt necessary. "Then why… why even suggest bathing together now?" she asked, needing to understand his reasoning, needing to know if it was another calculated move or simply thoughtlessness.

He seemed genuinely taken aback for a moment, a scoff slips from him as he parts tresses behind his ear. "Honestly? It didn't occur to me that it would be like that. Old habits, I suppose. Practicality. Thinking only of safety after the attack. My apologies." He didn't linger on the awkwardness. With a final, almost formal nod, he gathered a small bundle containing soap and linen.

"I won't be long."

He parted the tent flap and disappeared into the fading light, leaving her alone in the suddenly vast, shared space. It was going to be either a long week, or a very long month.

Chapter Text

She had taken his suggestion to bathe with Casca. Though the other women from the king's fifth that were expected to come along were all but gone, left behind at the tail of time that Casca didn't have to truly give. The swordswoman gripped onto Casca's steps with her pace as though it was a life raft, nearly hiding in her shadow under night skies. It was unfortunate because the dueler realized that Griffith hadn't returned to the tent and now she was gripped with the disquieting notion that the man was still stirring at the lake and that ultimately she wouldn’t have avoided him as intended. hopefully, the trail they paced nor the bank they would find wasn't frequented, but deep boot tracks gathering to the center of the muddy trail meddled with that hope.

It was easy to spot what was happening in the air between the two women, quiet tension that snuffed out any words. When she had found Casca, she was huddled by the flames in cold sweat gained from helping Rickert congregate members who had their tents ashen. Three bodies to a yurt that was half the size of their usual compared to what Griffith had lent them within the band. Midland had ordered them to take it instead of the white canvas camps that stuck out like a surrender cloth in the wrong foot of territory. To top it off, it was Casca who wore exhaustion as if it were a heirloom.

“We'll pass the men coming this way.” The swordswoman muttered, eyes following the trail while it wrapped over the hill, covering the sight of the tarn. Seeing men out of their armor wasn't familiar outside of the occasional piss session they couldn't hold in during patrols or marches. Casca snorted, less of a means of laughter than what seemed like annoyance,

“Is there a problem with that?”

The swordswoman blinked skittishly, her movements growing less confident with every step.

“They're cladless.”

Casca halted enough for the swordswoman to nearly crash into the back of her, “You must be pampered enough to never even seen a patch of hairs beneath the waist...” She gruffed, turning to finally face the dueler.

Her brows knit in confusion at the observation- unfortunately, the woman was right. She had noticed the entire band departing to bathe after breaking herself off from griffith's cleansing schedule, yet every time the Swordwoman attempted to follow, Griffith intercepted her. With practiced ease, he redirected her to guard the camp alongside the stray Hawks, dismissively offering her the chance to wash "later." After the fourth occurrence, the pattern came into shape that she was not meant to join them. Only now, as she grew older, did she grasp the deliberate abnormality of it all. But by then, solitude became her only partner to bathe with. She adapted, slipping away to launder in the hushed hours before dawn, when the sky was still cloaked in indigo and the world held its breath.

“I was always allotted to other duties when the Hawks would go bathe. So no, I never have-”

Casca's eyes narrowed at the swordswoman's. The dueler's grip over her linen towel tightened.

“It's quite strange considering every Hawk has.” Casca surmised.

“I agree.” said the duelist, "I thought it was because there was only so many who could bathe at once or possibly because I'm one of the only women in the band... but then I realized it was strange once I heard you were bathing with them." The swordswoman read more in Casca's gaze than what Casca was searching in hers. A quiet understanding that the exclusion was purposeful. Possessive, even when the intent was never said. Her mouth twitched, yet she wore a mask of frustration.

"He gives you the upper hand often."

Crickets made for the sound between them when the awkward that had came spilling from within the tent with Griffith earlier somehow had it's stench on her enough to tarnish their conversation. It wasn't as though she were going to question the commander, seeing how the dueler herself stepped into her boots when seeing Griffith's lips graze the top of Charlotte's palm.

She understood as deeply as Casca how that felt like. It even earned sympathy while time passed between them. "It looks like it."

"He does," She reiterated,  "He gives it to you all the time." Casca turned then, trying to shut out the conversation from going in any deeper.

"Look, I understand you. I do, truly. I know you... in some way, you at least admire Griffith beyond other members."

And then Casca stopped, and turned back to look at her. The duelist saw whatever softness that had hidden clandestine in her face die off. That's how she realized she had said too much. But she pressed on anyway, some part in understanding- another because she was growing impatient being idled to being a scapegoat. Griffith was privy to shaping the swordswoman to remain close and Casca was either being benighted about it or worse, not.

"I don't know if you see me clawing myself to be kept in the front lines, to have freedom beyond being beside Griffith. But its not my fault. I've ran around for years trying to fully understand why- because his closeness isn't as transparent as you paint it to be."

Brown eyes narrowed into slits as she stared at the swordswoman. "Then you're more ignorant than I realized." Casca whispered, staring at some point on the ground that hid in darkness. "He's put himself in front of you time and again. My feelings are irrelevent- Feelings occur like the weather. I simply can't stand that you don't appreciate him, yet you benefit from him more than you make the effort to understand."

Her brow quipped, "I tell him stop it, Casca, do you imagine how I feel when he continues. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate him. I want to be out in battle- I need to be." She scoffed, shaking her head while she felt the tinge of guilt pooling into her stomach.

"You are spoiled and pampered. You met the front lines much less often because Griffith would see me as the result of it. He would send me first before ever considering you and there has never been a change in that order."  Tendons popped at her jaw. "I've nearly been killed and pillaged more times than I can count and you're not truly there to see how bad it gets- because he's shielded you from ever even seeing it. But you never appreciate that." Her voice grew harder as she stepped closer, eyes leveling with the swordmaster.

"You at least still have the light in your eyes in battle. I've never seen you have to sacrifice your modesty, You've never even had fear in you of raiders circling around- like the concept doesn't exist to you- and somehow seeing our men pass us with the possibility of cladness is what frightens you? Griffith sees you as something to protect. He sees me as a commander to protect and serve the Hawks. If you're wondering where my frustration comes in, then it is answered" Her statement threw stunned silence into the duelist. Jests and laughter shot from over the hill as men trodded at its peak. Judeau was the first, nightwear sticking to his damp skin as he waved at the women. The fight died in her throat, the curdled- I demanded to be a commander- felt all too weak on her tongue.

"You two are earlier than expected, water's cold" Judeau said as he stopped between them. He could feel the conflict crackling in the air between them. Casca stood rigid, shoulders squared and the swordswoman, meanwhile, had withdrawn into herself, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond Casca's shoulder, clutching her towel like a shield. He made a vague gesture back towards the path other Hawks were taking uphill.

"Figured we'd beat the rush. Didn't expect company down here already, especially not you two." He shifted his weight, his usual easy grin faltering slightly as he glanced between the Swordswoman’s guarded expression and Casca’s rigid back.

“Yeah, well,” Judeau attempted again, scratching behind his ear, “beats trying to scrub armor clean with cold water, I suppose. Heard Corkus lost a bet and has to polish Gaston’s entire kit tonight. Should be entertaining, eh?”  He chuckled, the sound too loud in the charged quiet. It became obvious he was having a conversation with himself between the two.

The Swordswoman offered a noncommittal hum, her gaze fixed on the muddy path ahead, each rut and footprint seeming more interesting than the strained conversation. Casca remained silent, her posture radiating dismissal. Just then, a small group of Hawks appeared over the rise, towels slung over their shoulders, their banter drifting ahead of them.

“Swear it shrinks more every time it gets wet!”

one laughed, pulling at the hem of his damp tunic.

“Better than frostbite,” another retorted.

“Water’s colder than a witch’s-”  He broke off, noticing Casca and the Swordswoman.  “Oh, evening, Commander. Ma’am.”

The group nodded respectfully but quickly shuffled past, their conversation dropping to murmurs. Their casual camaraderie, the shared discomfort of the icy lake, felt like a physical barrier emphasizing the Swordswoman's isolation. Judeau scoffed and Casca sighed at the men's confab before their presence dawned on the group. But the swordswoman couldn't find a reaction for what was said. It didn't make the stiffness in the air any better. Judeau sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The attempt at easing the tension had clearly failed.

“Right, well, ” he said, backing away. “Best let you two… get on with it. Need to see Rickert about reinforcing the northern watch posts anyway.” He offered a quick, strained nod and retreated down the path, leaving the simmering silence to reclaim the space between them. For a moment, neither woman moved. The crickets resumed their frantic symphony. Then, Casca turned, her brown eyes hard as they swept over the Swordswoman.

“Enjoy your privileges,”she said, her voice low but laced with venom.“Some of us earn our place through sweat and scars, not proximity.”

Casca spun on her heel and strode purposefully down the path toward the bend that led to the women’s designated bathing spot by the lake bank. She left the Swordswoman standing alone on the muddy trail, the echo of her resentment hanging heavier in the air than the coming chill. Anger swelled against the unfairness. It was psychologically wearing on her, Griffith's subtle manipulations that placed her in this position, making her appear favored when all she craved was the respect earned by her blade.

No- She clenched her fists. She wouldn't be defined by this. Not by Casca’s envy nor Griffith’s complex games. She was a swordswoman of the Hawk, loyal to the cause, loyal to her own sense of honor. Squaring her shoulders, she forced her legs to move, following the path towards the lake, towel clutched tight. She’d choose her own spot, away from Casca’s judgmental silence.

As she rounded the final bend, the dark expanse of the lake opened before her, reflecting the bruised twilight sky. Reeds rustled at the water’s edge. And there, standing waist-deep near the opposite bank, water streaming down his pale back as he rinsed his hair, was Griffith. Alone.

She stopped breathing. No, she was correct. He hadn’t returned to the tent after all. Surprise tangled itself with annoyance- had he lingered deliberately? Then, unwillingly, her gaze snagged. The play of fading light on the water... it caught the lean lines of his shoulders and the curve of his spine, muscles she hadn't realized he'd grown, the unbound silver hair plastered against his neck… It was a fragility rarely glimpsed. Her eyes grew dry because she forgot to blink, focus unable to be tampered wth while she was drawn by the same complex magnetism that had defined their entire history. It felt transgressive yet compelling. Utterly so.

A sharp nudge to her ribs startled her violently.

“Eyes forward, Hawk.” Casca’s voice guillotined the moment. The dueler jumped, flushing strongly ofguilt and embarrassment warring within her.

At the sound, Griffith turned. Water dripping from his silver lashes. His azure eyes found the Swordswoman’s instantly across the darkening water. It was hard to read him then. There was just a moment of still, quiet acknowledgment. Then, breaking the suspended moment, he moved toward the bank where he’d left his things.

“I’ll leave,” he called across the water, “Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

He said it as though he plainly knew how his words stirred uncomfort in her earlier in the tent. He reached the bank and climbed out, water rolling from his lean frame. He wasn't hiding himself, reaching for his discarded towel with an unhurried lack of shame. The Swordswoman jerked her gaze away sharply, staring intently at the reeds at her own feet, heat flooding her cheeks. The image of him, pale skin gleaming, muscles defined by shadow and fading light, was seared onto the inside of her eyelids. Guilt ate at her for staring, being caught, and then for elliciting the strange stir revving her within, pleading to see more.

She heard the rasp of linen against skin as he dried himself.

“Be careful bathing,” Griffith said, “The current can be deceptive near the center.”

When she risked a glance, he was already pulling on his breeches, his back to them. Without another word, he gathered his belongings and melted into the trees lining the path back to camp. The tension beside her was palpable. Casca pointedly stripped off her outer layers, avoiding eye contact. The Swordswoman did the same, moving stiffly, acutely aware of every small sound – the sigh of shed leather, the splash as Casca waded in first. She followed, shock of icy water stealing her breath. They washed in near silence, the only sounds being the slap of water against skin and the mournful cry of a distant loon.

"Pass the soap," Casca muttered eventually, holding out a hand without looking up. The lake offered no solace, only a reflection of the cold, confusing depths within herself.

The walk back from the lake was faster, fueled by a desperate need to escape the anomosity she was drowning in and the chill that seemed to have settled deep in her bones. The Swordswoman clutched her damp towel, acutely aware of the rhythmic clink of her own armor in her arms accompanying her hurried steps. She ducked through the flap of Griffith's pavilion, half-hoping he might still be occupied elsewhere. But he was there, kneeling on the thick campaign rug, smoothing out a simple bedroll. The spare one he’d mentioned. The lantern light cast long shadows, illuminating the organized space. Campaign chests neatly stacked, maps rolled tidily, his polished armor gleaming softly on its stand. His presence and scent filled the tent, making the air feel too close. Her own cot, positioned opposite his armor stand, was already prepared. The blanket was folded neatly, a stark contrast to the slightly scorched, soot stained bundle she carried. He glanced up as she entered.

"Feeling warmer?" he asked.

"Fine," she muttered, avoiding his gaze. The awkwardness was a physical weight. Where was she supposed to put her things? It looked pitifully out of place amidst his orderly setup. She hesitated, finally setting her bundle down near the foot of the cot, feeling like an intruder in her own enforced sanctuary. The soot from her cloak left a faint smudge on the otherwise clean rug.

Silence descended as they both began their quiet routines of preparing for rest. The Swordswoman slipped onto her cot quickly, pulling the blanket up high, turning her back to the center of the tent, presenting him with only the rigid line of her shoulders. She heard him settle onto his bedroll on the floor. More rustling, then stillness. The only sound was the low hiss of the lantern and the distant sounds of the camp settling down for the night. Minutes stretched into molasses that became harder to digest. It made it hard to sleep. She stared into the darkness of the tent wall.

Then, she shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, and her gaze instinctively dropped towards the floor beside her cot. Her breath hitched. His bedroll wasn't positioned across the tent, or even a respectful distance away. It was right there. Scarcely more than arm’s reach from her cot. Close enough that if he stretched out an arm, he could likely touch the edge of her blanket. It was deliberate.

Turning onto her side to face the dim outline of his form on the floor, the words burst out before she could second-guess them, abrupt and raw in the quiet tent.

"Why?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, though it was loud between the both of them "Griffith… why did you kiss me earlier?"

He turned his head on the bedroll, the movement rustling the simple canvas. In the dim, flickering lantern light, shadows pooled in the hollows beneath his cheekbones, making him look different, somehow more inviting than usual.

"Because it felt right. Necessary, somehow. The way things sometimes do between us."

He shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, bringing his face marginally closer across the small gap separating cot and bedroll.

"It was similar to the feeling… from the flower field." The Swordswoman stared back, confusion knitting her own brows. The flower field had felt like a violation. How could this feel the same?

"How so?" She asked and then followed her words with a scoff, "The flower field was something new you never did to me before."

Seeing her incomprehension, Griffith sighed, a quiet sound that seemed heavy with unspoken complexities. "The kiss was something I didn't do to you before either."

"Hm, touche." She hummed, laying back on her pillow.

"My nature is irrevocably intertwined with ambition," he began, seeming to gather himself, looking not quite at her but at the dark canvas above. "But that doesn't mean other emotions don't interfere." He looked away briefly, towards the flickering lantern casting dancing shadows on the tent walls. "

The flower field- What I did there… it wasn't strategy. It wasn't calculated manipulation, not in the way you think." He met her eyes again, and the intensity was back, but different. Shadowed now by a bitterness she didn't understand. Possibly even shame.

"It was jealousy," he admitted, the word stark, almost brutal, in the quiet tent.

She blinked, taken aback by the unexpected word, "Jealousy? Of what?"

"Of you, your freedom. Or what I perceived as your freedom." It became apparent he was lost in the cogs of his mind. "The thought festered that I would soon be bound, likely to Charlotte, a marriage dictated entirely by political necessity, a performance for the rest of my life. While you,"  He gestured vaguely towards her cot. "Retained the choice. You could pursue your own path, potentially find fulfillment on your own terms, unburdened by the weight of a crown I actively seek." The crickets outside chirped, filling the silence. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. She was trying to reconcile this confession with the Griffith she knew, the man whose ambition seemed absolute.

"And more than that,"

he continued, his voice becoming almost rough, "the sickening certainty that once I was out of reach, and belonged to Midland, to the throne, to another woman, you would eventually realize you wanted something more. That you would find someone else. Someone who could offer you the simple things my path denies. And the thought of you turning that clear, unwavering gaze of yours onto another..," He trailed off, swallowing.  "It was intolerable." Her eyes widened at the darkness of the tent, she was too scared to stop him, hanging onto his words and clutching for more. He let out a breath, a heavy sound laden with complex emotions. "You see me. Completely. You see the sacrifices I've made. The boy Adonis and necessary evils… and you are still here. Still beside me." A sympathetic smile touched his lips. Sympathy for himself, or for the impossible situation they found themselves in. "At first, it infuriated me. That you saw all of it and never… elevated me. You never really saw me as the savior, the destined king, the way the others do."

She heard the fabric of his bedroll rustle as he shifted again, turning more fully towards her.

"You saw the man striving, sometimes stumbling, always reaching. But then I realized that refusal to deify me? That is its own form of profound loyalty. Perhaps the only true form I've ever known."

And then there was the quiet. Nothing to tell him beyond silent contemplation to digest his words. She allowed her sights to settle on him and his face showed how lost he truly was within himself, palm clutching over thin fabric that did little to warm him. It was possibly the thing he said that made her taste something sour in her mouth by seeing him like this. He'd likely tremble all night and for once, it felt too much to merely sleep on his cot. She sifted out of the sleeve of a heavy blanket to gather tattered layers of furs from her saved bedroll to shield him more against the cold air, thankful that fire hadn't kissed at its edges during the raid earlier.

She fanned it out, before quietly settling it over Griffith. Their eyes met breifly. To her it didn't seem tender as much as it felt practical. But what his eyes on her spelled was that it was tender. At least to him. Subconciously to her.

"You look cold." She murmured, "that better?"

That was all she could offer him. Strangely, Griffith was more open then even her and it took this long to realize it. It slowly shocked her.

"Yes. Thank you." He said softly.

She hummed in response- scared of saying too much again. Afraid she'd mess with the moment. Then she retreated back into the cot. And the silence stretched so long before they both realize the conversation ended. That's when slumber came for the both of them. Somehow it had snuffed her for the night, regardless of Casca's sharp words before the lake. His admission wiped away what drenched on her from bathing in that glacial water.

Sunlight, muted by the thick canvas of the pavilion, painted stripes across the Swordswoman’s face, coaxing her from a restless sleep. She blinked, shards of memory from the night before flashing at her. Spine snapped up, and she was pushing tangled hair from her eyes. He was across the tent.

Griffith was already moving, strapping on the final pieces of his immaculate silver armor. The intricate pauldrons settled onto his shoulders, polished surfaces reflecting the lantern light he hadn't extinguished.

The smell hit her first and she followed steam curling in the air to a simple wooden bowl over the barrel stand beside the cot, steam gently rising from a serving of thick, oat porridge with a spoon dipped in it. He must have fetched it for her while she slept. The realization warmed her more than the porridge would. It was a small gesture, yet imbued with closeness she hand't realized she missed.

But time pushed her out of that feeling. She scrambled off the cot and downed the porridge quickly, barely tasting it. She nearly tripped over herself when she was done, getting to a stand to grab her own armor pieces, fumbling with the straps of her vambrace in her haste.

"Allow me."

She heard Griffith's voice behind her. Then she saw a gleam of leather worn over his palm, his movements easy even in full plate. He skillfully tightened the buckle she'd been struggling with. His gloved fingers brushed against her forearm, deliberate and careful. He moved on to adjust the fit of her gorget, ensuring it sat correctly.  This was the echo of a hundred mornings from their youth, when tangled straps and ill-fitting pieces were common frustrations. Helping each other into their armor was as natural as breathing in adolescence. A domesticity settled comfortably over the moment between them, warming the air in the tent, chasing away some of the awkwardness of the previous night. She found herself leaning into his touch, almost as if leaning to taste the comfort of past times.

He finished securing her pauldron clasp, his knuckles brushing the side of her neck. It was enough to drown out her senses if it wasn't for his gaze meeting hers, unguarded for a moment.

"Ready?" he asked softly.

She nodded, swallowing the knot of confused emotion in her throat. "Ready."

Together, they stepped out of the pavilion and into the bustling chaos of the war camp preparing to march. Griffith, shedding the intimacy of the tent as easily as he donned his armor, turned towards the command center with a brief nod to her. She watched him go, swallowed by the enormity of their impending duty. The urgency of the camp was infectious. Midland knights hurried past, faces drawn with stress, hauling canvas bundles and weapons racks. She caught sight of Sir Owen near a cluster of hastily packed crates, directing two sweating squires struggling with a ridiculously ornate campaign chest belonging to one of the nobles. For how little she knew of him, his usual easy smile was strained at the edges, his brow furrowed as he gestured emphatically. “Careful with that lacquer! Lord Percival will have my hide if it’s scratched before we even see Tudor!” he snapped, the pressure clearly mounting. Pushing thoughts of Griffith and the whispers from their shared space aside, the Swordswoman focused on her immediate priority. Her boots found the grip with the path towards the makeshift horse lines where Viola waited. The grey mare nickered softly as she approached, nudging her shoulder. The simple, uncomplicated affection of the animal was a balm she didn’t know she needed. She ran a hand down Viola’s neck, checking the saddle straps, the bit, tightness of the buckles. All seemed secure, Viola unfazed by the surrounding turmoils, meeting the swordswoman's gaze.

“There you are!” Rickert’s breathless voice cut through her concentration. He jogged up, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. Duty seemed to be wringing him of all the energy he had left it seems.

“Just needed to let you know, Commander Griffith’s pavilion is scheduled to be struck by the supply teams in about twenty minutes. They’ll need all personal gear cleared out beforehand.”  He pointed towards the pavilion, now looking conspicuously large amidst the surrounding flurry of smaller tents being dismantled.  "We’re positioning the main supply lines just behind the vanguard Hawk units, so if you need anything packed with them-”

The Swordswoman sighed inwardly. Twenty minutes. Barely enough time to gather her meager belongings and mentally prepare for the inevitable march alongside nobles she disdained. “Understood, Rickert. I’ll gather my things now.” She gave Viola a final pat. “Thanks for the heads up.”

Rickert gave her an assured nod and hurried off towards a wagon loaded with grain sack. The Swordswoman turned back towards the command area. Her eyes followed the formations of the Hawks gathering near the supply lines Rickert had indicated. She spotted Casca instantly. The commander stood straight, giving clipped orders to a group of archers, but something was off. Casca’s face was unusually pale beneath her helm and her tan tint, and she pressed a hand subtly against her lower abdomen. Even from a distance, the swordswoman could feel what her body echoed.

Setting aside their earlier animosity, a different kind of concern rose. She approached Casca cautiously as the archers dispersed. “Casca,” she began, keeping her voice low for only her ears “Are you alright to ride?”

Casca’s head snapped up, brown eyes flashing with a mixture of pain covered beneath pride. “I’m fine,” she bit out, “Focus on your own duties guarding the nobles. The Hawks can manage themselves.”

She clutched her side again, almost involuntarily, knuckles paled. The rejection stung, but the Swordswoman saw past the anger to the raw pain beneath. She’d seen that particular look before, felt that kind of debilitating, invisible ache herself during certain moon cycles, though rarely this severe. It wasn’t just fatigue. It was her period, she thought. Or something like it, but worse than usual. Casca’s resilience was legendary, but this was clearly taking a toll.

“Look, I know. sometimes…” The Swordswoman fumbled for words, trying to offer support without overstepping the hostile boundary Casca had drawn. “If you need anything during the march, herbs, water- just signal.”

“I don’t need your pity at a time like this.” Casca spat, turning away to bark an order at a nearby spearman, ending the conversation just like so. Her face was beaded with a fine sheen of cold sweat despite the morning chill.

Frustration warred with sympathy in the Swordswoman’s chest. Fine. Casca could suffer in silence if she insisted. But that didn’t mean she had to let her. Turning away, the dueler made a detour back towards Viola. She knelt by her saddlebag, rummaging through the small pouches of essentials she always carried. Dried meat, bandages, flint and steel… ah, there it was. A small leather pouch containing dried willow bark shavings- nature’s simple answer to pain and fever. Casca might throw it back in her face, but if that crippling agony worsened on the march, miles from proper aid… well, having it would be better than not. She tucked the pouch in an outer pocket of her own saddlebag, reasoning Casca might accept it later if offered discreetly by someone else, like Judeau.

As she rose, tightening the last strap on Viola’s saddlebag, a shadow fell over her. She looked up, startled, into the cool, appraising eyes of Lord Lyle. He stood closer than necessary, his presence somehow both innocuous and invasive. The gaunt nobleman offered a formal smile but it felt forced.

“Preparing for the glorious push, I see,”  Lyle murmured, his gaze sweeping over her and Viola with unsettling thoroughness. He seemed less interested in her readiness for battle and more in cataloging her very being. The Swordswoman stiffened, immediately wary. His scrutiny felt different from the casual observations of other nobles. Looking at him now, she felt a weight solidifying in her gut: this man knew something. His gaze felt like that of an old enemy studying the cub of a slain lion.

“Just ensuring my mount is ready, my Lord,” she replied. Let him look. She wouldn’t show fear to this quill pusher.

“Of course, of course,” Lyle purred, still watching her every minute movement.

“Diligence. A commendable trait. One wonders where such dedication was learned.” He tilted his head slightly, his eyes lingering on the line of her jaw, the set of her shoulders.  “Quite remarkable.” The air became a blanket. The bustle of the camp faded into it’s heavy veil. Lord Lyle was tracing the line of her profile with his eyes.  “Commander Griffith certainly surrounds himself with compelling individuals. He has a certain penchant, wouldn’t you say? For loyalty, and for appearances. There's a pattern, if one looks closely enough.”

Words were left unclear, yet carried something that made the Swordswoman’s skin prickle. Before she could formulate a response to the bizarre remark, Lyle scoffed, waving a dismissive hand to the notion. “Ah, well. Best of luck defending us old men tomorrow. Let’s hope the campfires are better managed this time, hmm? Though with tensions running as they are…”

The dueler forced herself back, refusing to rise to the bait. “The Hawks maintain strict discipline regarding camp safety, my Lord. I’m sure all precautions are being taken. Are the command preparations proceeding smoothly?”

Lyle waved her question away with another negligent gesture. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself with such banalities, my dear. Relax. I’m not trying to pry into Hawk affairs, truly. Just curious. An old man’s idle observation of youth and ambition.”

The Swordswoman recoiled instinctively, taking a sharp step back. The space she created felt insufficient against the sudden wave of revulsion. “That’s disgusting,” she hissed, the word tight with anger and the unsettling feeling of being visually pawed. Lyle merely scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound like rustling leaves. He waved a languid hand, utterly unfazed by her accusation.

“My dear, please. It’s not as though I’m your closest comrades, practically undressing you with their eyes every time you turn your back. it may be it’s only men you find aesthetically pleasing that are permitted such silent whispers across the skin? Is that your standard? I mean I get it, you and I have the same taste. When Owen said something about the white hawk, I was excited to see for myself what he meant.”

She was dipped in a pond of shock enough to rattle still at his admission. Though it was impressive he would outwardly admit his attractions as a means to de-arm himself in front of her.

“and color me not dissapointed. You don't have to worry about me in that way, girl. Honestly, parading that face before the Midland nobility- it’s not terribly wise. There are eyes here older than mine, with longer memories than Laban’s or young Owen’s.” He gave a minute shrug. “But don’t mistake me. I’m not one to meddle in affairs that aren’t my own. Im merely curious. As I said.”

She gave a snort through her nostrils after a pause.

"Curious about what, my Lord?" She impatiently urged.

“whether those palms are truly hardened for gripping steel through campaigns long and bloody or if, as I suspect beneath the calluses, they remain rather too soft for the life you live or whether they’re truly made for a sword.”

Too soft? After everything? After the countless battles, the scars hidden beneath her armor, the nights spent maintaining her blade while others slept? He stood there, a man whose hands likely only knew the softness of velvet and the weight of coin purses, questioning her very capability, her right to stand on this battlefield. The irritation splintered her resolve. She stood rigid, glaring. He didn’t believe she could protect them. He thought her weak, unfit, merely playing at being a soldier. As he turned away she sneered.

"Exceptionally harder than yours, I suppose." She hissed, the words slipping in her stew of words like poison.

He froze before cackling in a fit of laughter, "Oh, I like you. You don't kneel much like I see your comrades. At least not to me"  He murmured and tilted his head to gather her resolve further, "We all survive this, and I'll endorse you more than any other Hawk. How about that?" She stood looking at him as the silence settled.

"Why?" She asked.

"Because you're protecting us all, no?"

"You seem crudely judgemental?" She continued.

"Curious." Lyle corrected.

She sighed and then shrugged. "Fine, but I'd rather you take back your assuming comment."

He chuckled lightly before sighing, "Well, I can agree to that. I'll let you get on with it." He said before following beside Lord Percival to the command center through scrambling bodies. There was no time for this. Griffith’s tent. Right.

She marched back towards the pavilion, and as she neared, Gaston was already there, rolling up the exterior ropes.

"Gaston," she acknowledged curtly, ducking through the tent flap.

"Supply crew's nearly here. Best grab what's yours."  he replied without looking up, his attention hellbent on securing a stubborn knot.  She worked quickly, running to Viola to jam her cloak and dagger into her already bulging saddlebag. Her movements were jerky with tensions she couldn't understand. What was all that about with Lyle?

"Need a hand with that armor stand?" Gaston asked when she arrived back with short breaths. He gestured towards Griffith's polished silver armor, standing like a silent sentinel.

"No, leave it," she snapped, perhaps more sharply than intended. "Griffith’s gear goes with the command convoy, not the Hawk lines." She grabbed her spare sword and the awkward bundle of her own tattered bedroll. "I've got mine."

Gaston merely nodded, already turning to start collapsing the tent poles from the inside. The Swordswoman took one last look around the rapidly shrinking space, Lyle's strange words and Griffith's closeness meddled her. Shaking her head, she pushed through the tent flap, determined to leave the confusion behind and focus on the march ahead. The only thing that mattered now was the enemy waiting beyond the horizon.

Chapter Text

“The cold dissipates from a dagger, fortunately,” Laban observed, his voice cutting through creaking of leather and clinks of chainmail as the column snaked onward. He rode near her flank, lost staring ahead yet somehow aware of her presence amidst the gaudier Midland nobles. Midland and the Hawks had finally began their journey into Tudor lines. “Easier to hold when it doesn’t bite back with frost.”

The Swordswoman offered a quiet nod, her attention fixed on the mud-churned track. Griffith rode slightly ahead and to the side, absorbed in conversation with Owen, yet she felt his awareness an invisible tether stretching between them across the space bridged by fidgeting lords. “This pace is simply glacial, At this rate, the Tudors will die of old age before we reach Doldrey. Owen, tell your knights to press onward! Must we crawl? ” Lord Percival complained loudly, shifting his bulk uncomfortably in his saddle. His polished breastplate gleamed ostentatiously.

“The vanguard sets the pace, my Lord. The terrain ahead is uncertain, best not to outrun our scouts or strain the supply lines.” Owen gave a contrary reply.

Percival scoffed, waving a hand at the circumstance, “What use are supplies if we arrive too late for glory? This war has dragged on long enough. A swift, decisive strike is needed!”

The Swordswoman heard creaking in her ears with the vapid clench of her jaw. She could feel Griffith’s glance towards her; was certain she could hear the low chuckle he wanted to breathe out. He knew how this grating proximity to pampered incompetence chafed at her spirit. Lyle was seemingly dallying but appeared more mysterious than his flamboyant nature suggests, Percival on the other hand was unbarable, hiding behind his nobility and looks first before a sword it seems. She wanted to choke the blond man to get him to shut up. “Honestly, I might have had a more tolerable time riding with the laundresses and camp women back with the main force” she muttered under her breath, the words escaping before she could leash them.

Lord Lyle, riding nearest her other side, turned his head sharply. “Oh, I doubt that very much,” he muttered, “Those women… they serve a particular purpose on campaign, and it isn't scrubbing tunics, not primarily.”

The Swordswoman blinked, pouting. “Beyond basic camp duties?”

Lyle leaned closer, “Let us be frank. Long marches, constant threat of death. Men develop certain needs. Tensions build. Unchecked, they lead to desertion, infighting, even raids on civilian settlements for release. A commander must maintain discipline. Those women you see trailing the army? They are bed warmers.”

Disgust seized the Swordswoman’s insides. She suddenly felt nauseatingly naive. Casca would have known this. Would have seen it, lived alongside it, perhaps even fought to protect those women from the worst excesses while, herself? The duelist would've remained blissfully unaware from a distance. Now the word coddled that Casca snaked out of her lips yesternight felt branded onto her soul.

“And you condone this? Fight alongside women like Commander Casca and myself, yet you allow this?”

Lyle gave an unfazed raise of his shoulders,  “What I personally condone is irrelevant. I do not require services. My bed remains comfortably warmed by my own blankets. Frankly, I want to keep it that way.” He turned his gaze ahead with a heavy sigh, “But I am not the sole commander, nor am I the king. This practice predates my commission, and likely will continue long after. Lord Percival, amongst others, insists upon it for the morale of his men. I simply acknowledge the reality of how armies are managed.”

“Perhaps the Hawk desires a warmer billet herself? A strong girl like you could surely offer significant comfort after a hard day’s march.”  Percival interjected, leering at the Swordswoman.

Before the Swordswoman could make him eat his words, Griffith’s voice trampled over the fight she had readied for herself.

“Lord Percival, Mistake her resolve for an invitation, and you’ll find your throat slit in your sleep by her own hand.”

“She couldn't lay a hand-"

“She isn’t even meant to be in the same thought as a bed warmer.”

Percival flushed purple but subsided, muttering into his thick neck. Lyle watched the exchange. The fight died in her throat, choked by Griffith’s defense. She forced her eyes forward, studying the monotonous sway of Viola’s mane, anything but the cool azure eyes she knew were still fixed on her profile. Lord Percival became a boar stuck with a thistle. Face purpled further, spittle forming at the corners of his lips.

“She’d slit my throat? That’s treason, Commander! Rank treason! You hear this? She’d be drawn and quartered for laying a hand on nobility!” he sputtered, jowls quivering.

Griffith turned to look at the fool lord. A smile touched his lips. “Yes, and you would be extraordinarily dead, wouldn't you?”

“You shared a tent! Last night! I heard the supply carts were burned, but don’t think we didn’t notice. Are you telling me she didn’t warm your bed then, Commander?” Percival demanded, his voice regaining its bluster.

“Indeed we shared a tent,” Griffith confirmed, meeting Percival’s glare without shame of action. “A regrettable circumstance necessitated by the rather targeted destruction of her previous quarters and the supply units containing replacements. As for warming my bed”  Then he peered over to the dueler glaring at the scene unfolding. "She did. But not while I was in it.”

“Nonsense!” Percival huffed, unwilling to yield the point. “Those comfort women had their pavilion pitched not fifty yards from the command circle! Safer there than alone with you, I’d wager! No proper reason for a soldier of her rank to impose upon her commander’s privacy!”

“Lord Percival, perhaps you are unaware, but those particular tents are frequented."

"And?" Percival drawled.

"And, It's a chaotic breeding ground of activity throughout the night. Had this Hawk been placed there, inevitably some drunken guardsman or opportunistic noble’s squire would've stumble into her grounds, mistaking her purpose in the dark. I estimate the men that would enter would be found dead by morning. An unfortunate complication for our morning march, wouldn't you agree?” He swept his focus over the surrounding nobles. “She is loyal only to the Band of the Hawk, and to me.”

A shocked silence washed over the group. Even Lyle looked momentarily tilted.  Percival, under his breath but loud enough for those nearby to hear, muttered, "Possessive bastard.."

Griffith ignored the muttered insult itself. Instead, he countered, “One never says ‘commander’ when addressing your name, Lord Percival. They typically cannot see that title under your lordship, can they?”

The corpulent noble swelled, speechless with rage. Before he could roar back, Lyle interjected, “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Shall we debate military semantics and sleeping arrangements after we’ve actually broken the Tudor line?”

Lyle’s diversion was on the heels of the conflict until it settled back into broiling resentment and uneasy alliances. The swordswoman didn’t register that her brows had shot up or that she had been focused staring at Griffith defending her. Griffith turned to give her a ghost of a smile before he gave a slight kick to his horse's sides to return back to the front of the line. Quickly came the warmth draping over her. The same feeling that had felt like a familiar safe haven, as though to open door a door to feel the warm press of the sun. Just with a drop of shame. She didn’t know if the protection was needed. But in some way, she expected it..

Griffith let the silence linger before turning his attention calmly away from the fuming lord and onto Lyle.

“Lord Lyle, Regarding Midland’s peerage and military appointment, hadn't the established laws or edicts shifted?” Griffith asked.

Lyle adjusted his position slightly in his saddle. “There was such a time. Under the previous king, grandfather to our current Majesty. The crown faced, a ‘deficit’ in loyal commanders after a particularly difficult series of skirmishes along the northern border. He made decrees that made the entry all the easier for more than just skill. Though they were debated fiercely by the old houses at the time, were never fully rescinded.”

Percival, seeing what he perceived as an opportunity to regain footing, interjected loudly, jabbing a finger towards Griffith. “And you, Commander, stand as proof of it, do you not? A commoner raised to lead armies! Beneficiary of Adelbert’s desperate measures!”

Griffith met Percival’s triumphant sneer with a smile. “Indeed, Lord Percival, I am undoubtedly a product of the systems that allow talent and ambition to ascend."

He gave the furious lord no further acknowledgment, turning his head forward as if Percival had ceased to exist the moment the words left Griffith’s lips. As Griffith settled back into the rhythm of the march, his gaze drifted sideways, seeking and finding the Swordswoman’s. The look he gave her then held none of the day’s earlier tension or amusement at Percival's expense. No, across the sliver separating their mounts, it was appraisal. It sent a jolt straight through her, tightening her grip on Viola’s reins. Then, with a nudge of his heels, Griffith urged his white stallion forward a few paces. Hours and the column eventually slowed, drawing to a halt near the murky edge of a still pond fringed by dense woods. Sunlight filtered weakly through the overcast sky, reflecting dully on the water’s surface. Owen raised a hand, signaling a pause.

The column eventually slowed, drawing to a halt near the murky edge of a still pond fringed by dense woods. Sunlight filtered weakly through the overcast sky, reflecting dully on the water’s surface. Owen raised a hand, signaling a pause.

“Alright, everyone!” Owen called out,“We’re assessing the viability of this spot for tonight’s encampment. Regardless of the decision, fill your waterskins now while we have the chance. Don’t assume a better source ahead!”

Knights and squires dismounted, moving towards the water’s edge with flasks and jugs. Amidst the bustle, the Swordswoman felt the familiar restlessness stir. Standing idle while nobles debated camping logistics felt like a waste of valuable time, especially with the forest looming so close with danger that could be threaded within it. She dismounted and approached Owen.

“Sir Owen, while the commanders deliberate, would it be useful for me to make a quick look at the treeline around? Check for any signs of Tudor presence?”

Owen paused, looking thoughtfully from her to the dense wall of trees bordering the pond. He scanned the tangled undergrowth, shadowed depths between trunks. After a moment’s consideration, weighing the potential risk, he nodded.

“A sound precaution. Their cavalry patrols have been bolder lately. Keep it brief, no further than bowshot range initially. Signal if you find anything suspicious. Go.”

She gave a curt nod and turned towards the forest path that skirted the pond’s muddy bank. As she approached, she saw Griffith standing beside Commander Laban near the water's edge, their conversation seemingly winding down. She hesitated for only a second before continuing, passing close enough for them to notice.

“Scouting the near woods, Commander,” she stated, addressing Griffith directly while keeping her seeming focus to the treeline.

“Be thorough,” H e replied. Then, as she was about to move past, he added, “I’ll join you shortly. Two sets of eyes are better than one for this terrain.”

Her steps faltered. Hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “Understood.” Without waiting for further dismissal, the Swordswoman turned, gave Viola a reassuring pat, and melted into the shadows of the forest edge, sword loose in its scabbard.

The woods seemed like spider webs to cut through. Ancient trees, thick with moss, clawed at the dimming sky, their roots tangling across the uneven ground as arthritic fingers. The air was damp and smelled of decaying leaves and cold earth. She moved, senses sharp, scanning the leaf litter for unnatural disturbances, listening for sounds beyond the scuttling of unseen woodland creatures. She found a faint game trail leading deeper into the woods. Deer, it looks like. The thought surfaced instinctively. Game trails here… could supplement the stores if the line camps long. But hunting would have to wait. Safety first. She pressed onward, following the trail as it curved gently uphill.

A snap of a twig to her left brought her up short, hand flying to her sword hilt. She froze with her breath held and there was nothing but silence. Then, a distinct rustle in a thick patch of thorny undergrowth just ahead. Cautiously, she drew her blade, the whisper of steel against leather unnaturally loud in the quiet forest. She circled the bush with her sword held ready, searching the shadows within. A glance simply revealed tangled branches and dead leaves disturbed. Nothing.

She let out a slow breath, relaxing into herself, about to sheathe her sword.

Whizz

The sound was some sharp velocity slicing through the air inches from her ear. She dropped, throwing herself sideways into a roll as something heavy thudded violently into the tree trunk exactly where her head had been a second before. Wood splintered explosively beside her. Heart hammering against her ribs, she scrambled behind the thick bole of another ancient oak, peering cautiously around the edge, sword gripped tight, searching the dimming woods for the source of the attack.

Her breath hitched, trapped in her lungs. Silence, heavy and suffocating, amplifying the thrumming in her ears. She scanned the deepening gloom, sword held low, body flinching while her muscles flexed tightly. Where was he? The splintered tree trunk beside her offered grim testament to the power behind the attack. He's armed with an axe. Movement between two gnarled beeches and a shape detached itself from the shadows – a man clad in the muddied, practical leather and steel of a Tudor border raider, not the finery of their regular army. His helmet was functional, obscuring his face save for the glint of determined eyes through the slit.

He hefted a broad-headed woodsman’s axe, its edge stained dark, chipped from hard use. He charged, a low growl rumbling in his chest, covering the ground with deceptive speed, axe swinging in a wide arc meant to force her back. She met him head-on. Steel shrieked against steel as her faster blade deflected the crushing momentum of the axe. Sparks showered the leaf litter. The impact jarred her arm to the shoulder, a testament to his raw strength. This was no clumsy peasant levy; he moved with the skill of a seasoned killer.

They fell into a brutal dance around the clearing. Her lighter sword was quicker, darting in, seeking openings, forcing him to turn, to block, robbing him of the space needed for his powerful swings. But he was relentless, his footwork surprisingly agile on the root choked ground. He used the axe haft to block, shoulder checked her blade aside, and constantly pressed forward, trying to overwhelm her with sheer aggression and the terrifying weight of his weapon. Once, she feinted low, then spun, aiming a slicing cut at his thigh, but he anticipated, pivoting just enough for the blow to glance off his greave with a teeth-grinding scrape. He countered instantly, the axe head whistling past her cheek, close enough for her to feel the wind of its passage. She stumbled back, tripping over a hidden root, recovering just as the axe slammed down where she’d been, biting deep into the earth.

He pressed the advantage, forcing her back towards a cluster of tightly packed pines. Her boots slipped on damp moss. Her space was shrinking. He was driving her, corralling her. The feeling clawed at her– being cornered, overwhelmed, memory of struggling uselessly in the burning ruins of her home came to greet her eyes instead of the scene before her. The bandit’s leering face, the weight pressing down… Her breaths were so loud, it muted the sounds around her as she hyperventilated.

The Tudor roared, a sound of pure exertion and imminent victory, raising the axe high. He saw the opening, the slight imbalance as she struggled for footing against the rough bark of a pine. She was no longer where she was. She was standing at the soot-stained earth of her village. The axe descending wasn’t just Tudor steel; it was the cruel punctuation mark to her helplessness then.

No

An animalistic cry ripped from her own throat. Technique vanished and she felt her will. She surged forward, under the descending arc of the axe, slamming her shoulder into the Tudor’s midriff with the force of a battering ram. Air whooshed from his lungs. He staggered back, surprised by the sudden, suicidal ferocity. The axe blow went wide, embedding itself in a neighbouring tree. She gave him no time to recover. Hacking slashes driven by desperation. She wasn’t fighting him; she was fighting ghosts that she thought she defeated before. Steel rang wildly as he desperately tried to block the frenzied assault, hampered by his closeness to her and the unexpected speed of her rage. He managed to wrench his axe free, bringing it around defensively, but she was relentless. She ducked under a clumsy swing, her blade flashing upwards, slicing deep into the muscle and tendons of his axe arm.

He screamed, a sharp sound of pain cutting through his earlier aggression. The axe clattered from his numb fingers. He stumbled backwards, clutching the bleeding limb, eyes wide with shock and sudden fear beneath his helmet. He was injured. Vulnerable. The sight seemed to trigger the final, catastrophic break. The face behind the helmet wasn't a Tudor soldier anymore. It was the bandit leader. The one who had laughed as her father fell. The one whose eyes held only cruel amusement. She lunged, tackling him low, sending them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and tearing leaves. He scrabbled desperately for his dropped axe, but she was faster, straddling his chest, pinning his good arm with her knee. Her sword was raised high, sunlight catching the blood already smeared along its length.

His eyes, visible through the helmet slit, widened in terror. He tried to speak but only choked sounds emerged.  How it felt like failure beyond comprehension. She brought the sword down in a messy plunge into his chest, through leather and mail. Bone crunched and he arched beneath her, a horrifying gurgle escaping his lips.

The ghosts weren't silent yet. She pulled the blade free with a wet, tearing sound and plunged it down again. And again. And again.

She hacked and stabbed with frantic, ragged movements, into the man beneath her, whose struggles grew weaker, then ceased altogether. Finally, arms trembling uncontrollably, sword slick and heavy in her grip, she stopped. Frenzied energy drained away, leaving a vast, echoing emptiness. Ragged breaths tore through her lungs. Copper and viscera filled the air. And then what was really there bled into focus. Dimming forest light, not smokey night air. Mossy ground kissing her knees. She looked down. Not the bandit leader. A Tudor soldier, his armor rent, his chest cavity a horrific ruin, eyes staring sightlessly at the canopy of leaves above. Blood soaked her gloves, her tunic, splattered across her face. The forest exhaled around her with a cold, indifferent sigh. She abandoned her sword to the gloom of the forest. Then whispered the faint rustle of leaves untouched by the wind. Griffith emerged from the treeline’s deeper shadows. His eyes bypassed the carnage at her feet, finding her, holding her.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low, a subterranean current beneath the forest’s brittle symphony, “What happened here?”

The dueler looked at him and she realized, with a jolt that had nothing to do with the battle’s adrenaline in her veins, that she’d expected this. For him to find her, to parse the wreckage not of the battlefield, but of her own unraveling.

She cleared her throat from that thought, “Ambush- A single raider. He came out of the undergrowth.” A bloodied gloved hand gestured toward the treeline, the motion jerky, as if her limbs fought to reject the memory not of what happened a moment ago but of a persistent pain that couldn't be scrubbed from her spirit.

Griffith’s gaze finally dropped to the corpse, "His armor,” he murmured, kneeling to catch a better look, “Its mismatched. Likely stolen.”

She checked over the murdured tudor again to realize he'd been right. “I can see that” she said flatly. She’d noted the crudely welded greave and the helmet’s mismatched make.

He didn’t respond as without hesitation, his gloved fingers unlatched the Tudor’s helmet, peeling it away. The face beneath was a topography of violence, sun cracked skin, scars like dried riverbeds, a mouth frozen in a snarl that death had not softened. Blood seeped from the corner of the man’s lips as Griffith tilted the head with scrutiny.

“What are you doing?”

He left her unanswered. His eyes scoured the lifeless features with an intensity that prickled her spine. And then, he rose.  “A seasoned raider,” he declared, flagging her earlier instincts correct. “Driven from the Tudor lines. Desperate. If this armor was stolen, the Tudors will hunt its absence. Even if we didn’t kill their knight, they’ll send hounds. This ground isn't safe for the line.”

The logic was sound. Yet even after his assessment, his brows were still pinched in thought.  “I suppose,” she murmured, though not convincing in her faith in his final assessment.

Griffith turned, his armor catching the light that glanced from above. “Come.”

As they retreated, the forest floor whispered beneath their boots, a tapestry of shadows and fractured sunlight. He spoke again,

“Laban and Owen are competent, but Percival’s complacency is a crack in the dam.”He made his way through the thick forest where finally the trees parted to clearer ground. "I'll have Judeau shadow your movements. Coordinate patrols under the guise of securing communications.”

Her steps slowed. "You're pulling Judeau from the Hawks? Aren't they already short without you?" She asked, watching him pace down to the bare lakeside.

"I'll still lend them instruction, Judeau will help them when we aren't facing battles."

Now her brows pinched as she scoffed incredulously. "Why?" She asked, finally moving to follow him.

He left her question hanging. Instead, he began to walk, not back towards the nervous congregation of nobles, but veerig off the worn path, deeper along the water's edge where the trees grew denser, casting the bank in its shadow. Again. He needed another moment again. The Swordswoman hesitated for only a moment before the familiar tug of his unspoken expectation pulled her along. She stumbled slightly on an exposed root, her mind still grappling with the implications of his quiet pronouncements, her senses dulled to the changing direction until the muddy ground beneath her boots gave way to damp, sandy loam near the lake itself. The air here was colder, stiller.

He stopped at the water’s lip, where small, disturbed wavelets lapped and then he pulled off his helmet. The Tudor raider’s blood, a smear on her cheek and forehead, felt like a hardening mask.

"Kneel,"

Griffith said, his voice soft, yet it cut through the quiet lapping of the water as if he were commanding the current itself.

She frowned, her earlier confusion morphing into suspicion. "What?"

"Kneel."

He repeated in the same tone, insistent.  With a reluctant sigh that was more breath than sound, she did as commanded in stiff movement. The cold dampness of the earth seeped through the knees of her breeches. He then knelt beside her, soft clicks and hisses of his armor plates sounded. Before she could ask again, he cupped water in his gauntleted hands, the liquid shockingly cold as it sloshed between the metal plates.

He reached for her face.

She flinched, but he was gentle, his touch surprisingly deft even through the leather and steel. Cold water, tinged with the metallic scent from his gloves, touched her skin. He used the water to wash away the drying blood, his thumb moving with a strangely focused tenderness over her cheekbone, then her forehead. It felt so tender, it was unnerving.

He then removed a folded square from under his chest plate– a handkerchief. She stilled when he pat her face dry with it. Even the little bit of softness from the cloth felt like a haven.

"I had it for Charlotte originally, carried with me since"

he replies with an even voice, eyes still on his task.

A sharp sound escaped her. "Of course." That shitty green feeling pricked at her, a familiar sting she quickly masked with a roll of her eyes.

"But I am using it for you," he murmured, "Are you upset about it?"

She shrugged, a jerky, defensive movement, pulling her face away from his touch. "You don't have to use her handkerchief on me."

"What else could I have used?"

"You don't have to clean my face," she retorted, the words sounding childish even to her own ears.

"I'm cleaning the spots you can't see. It will alarm the nobles otherwise." After the pause, he resumed dabbing gently at a spot near her hairline.

She was trapped, not by force, but by this unsettling, relentless tending at this point. She had remained still until he folded the now pink and crimson fabric to stow away back within his armor.

“Because it was used on you, I will hold this handkerchief as if it was always meant for you. I never used it for Charlotte. Nor would I now.” Griffith knew where it hurt. And he knew how to bandage those places until he could convieniently hurt them again. She ignored his stament, not wanting to give him praise to something that he should've realized was in poor taste.

Instead she tried to divert the conversation. "Why is he really watching over me?" she pressed again, needing to understand the layers of his protection.

His thumb returned to her cheek, the coolness lending to giving her goosebumps. The metal over his thumb traced a possessive line from the high curve of her cheekbone, down along the sensitive line of her jaw and she began to grow confused if her skin was truly weary of the cold or singing in response to his gentle touch. When his thumb reached the delicate point just beneath her ear, lingering there for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, his voice came.

"I don't take it lightly that Percival attempted to toy with you. Nor that you were so carelessly endangered earlier."

"Hm.. well, That requires my consent, I'm alright." she said, the words crumbling beneath the weight of his gaze.

His smile widened, "Certainty suits you ill,"

His other hand rose, water droplets ran from steel fingertips to trace the trembled bob of her throat as she swallowed. Breaths painted her lips while time dissolved. His mouth grazed hers like the first brushstroke on virgin vellum and when her resolve crumbled into a whimper against his teeth, he drank the sound like wine. His armor pressed cold runes into her fevered skin as their breath twined. She felt her will bow when his tongue grazed her lips in a permission to slip in. But she caught herself, air sucking into her lungs as she jolted back. They broke apart joined by a bridge of saliva and Griffith's tongue traced his own lips to break it. The Swordswoman swayed while her heart skittered in her chest.

"The raider-" she stammered, words ash in the aftermath of wildfire. "Owen must-"

"Indeed."

His thumb brushed her swollen lower lip, smudging the proof of their transgression before standing. As they walked, the silence settled between them. Of course, she allowed herself to cave to him as though she hadn't just killed a raider, lost her mind to the past and then follow expectations to protect the Midland nobles. The same ones who can barely hold the title of 'commander'. What the hell was she doing? What was he doing? A small voice came before her, a doubt in the waging waters of her confident act that told her whatever was happening was just the foreshadowing winter in the form of frost growing over moss. This wouldn't stop. It hadn't after the first kiss. In fact, she wasn't biting at his transgressions as she did months back. She allowed him to get closer, allowed him to kiss her. Griffith couldn't escalate this... there was no reason to. At least not something that historically made sense before. Griffith strode forward, the Swordswoman flanking him slightly, maintaining a professional distance that masked the pervasive scene before.

"Commander Laban," Griffith announced as the bank gave way to the line of Midland knights and warriors in wait, "I believe there was an attempted infiltration. The Threat is already neutralized," All eyes snapped towards them.

Owen stepped forward immediately, relief washing over his face. "Are you both alright?"

"Indeed," Griffith stated, nodding towards the Swordswoman. " She encountered a lone Tudor operative attempting to penetrate the woods near the command position. " He chose his words seemingly carefully. Spreading that particular suspicion among the jumpy nobles would achieve nothing but panic.

Laban seemed to be resolved to the circumstance "Just as I suspected. A possilbe scout aiming for decapitation before the main push. They know our offensive is imminent." He looked directly at the Swordswoman with grudging respect. "Good work, Hawk. Quick reaction saved lives. We'll move out shortly"

The army stumbled to a weary standstill as dusk dissolved into night. Exhaustion clung to each soldier like a sodden cloak, weighing down the gruff Midland knights with their grumbled oaths, and etching deep lines into the stone. Even Lord Percival’s once sharp tirades had faded to ragged, winded puffs, little more than the dying wheezes. They had clawed their way deep into hostile lands, further than wisdom dared tread, and when the command to make camp finally rasped through the ranks, a shared exhale rippled outward, as if the weary host sought to breathe life back into the frigid night air itself. The Swordswoman, though haunted by a fatigue that gnawed at her very marrow, found no solace in stillness. While haughty nobles flicked their wrists, directing squires with the ease of those born to command, she wove through the struggling Midland footmen. Her hands, calloused and sure, wrested tent poles from the reluctant earth. Her palms bled raw, her sinews howled in protest, when a flicker of motion snagged her eye. From a tent, hastily raised, unmistakably a noble’s vanity, a young woman slipped out. Her face was a mask of painted cheer; silk draped over a bared shoulder, clutched as she stepped into the chill. Behind her emerged a Midland knight of Percival’s entourage, his smirk a greasy slash, tucking his shirt into breeches with the smug ease of a predator sated.

She grunted in disgust, seeing a flash of the scene of what happend just in his look alone.

The days that followed were the gnawing chill of approaching winter. The combined armies of Midland clawed their way eastward. Skirmishes with Tudor patrols were frequent, sharp, and bloody – fleeting storms that left behind corpses and the metallic tang of fear in the air. The Swordswoman, tethered to the noble command unit, found herself a reluctant spectator to their strategic blunders and a frequent, if unthanked, savior during unexpected engagements. Lord Percival was a constant source of friction, only offset by Owen’s pragmatism and Laban’s scrutiny. Lord Lyle, thankfully, kept his unsettling observations mostly to himself after witnessing Griffith’s pointed defense, though his eyes still followed her with a curiosity that made her skin crawl.

Griffith had sewed himself to his commanding position, yet in the brief lulls, in the shared space of their tent, an almost unbearable tension simmered. She had felt like she was staving the inevitable with just a little more than thin ice. Fortunately the days stretched so long, little coversation could be had between the both of them. He maintained professional distance, yet his gaze would sometimes linger. She, in turn, buried herself in duty, in the meticulous care of her gear, in silent observation, using the mundane routines of camp life as a shield against the turmoil within.

Finally, after days that felt like years, the vanguard reached a series of low, rolling hills overlooking a vast, windswept plain. A more permanent camp began to take shape, a sprawling city of canvas and cookfires, buzzing with the nervous energy of an army poised on the brink.

With the encroaching cold, firewood became a precious commodity, especially for the nobles’ oversized pavilions. The Swordswoman, along with Judeau, found herself tasked with leading a detail to forage in the sparse woodlands bordering the camp. Judeau, since the incident with the Tudor raider, had been subtly reassigned. His tent, no longer nestled amongst the main Hawk encampment, was now pitched discreetly near the command circle, a silent shadow Griffith had placed to watch over her. The rhythmic crunch of their boots on the frost-hardened earth was a familiar sound. Though the ice gnawed at her spirit and she didn't quite know why.

“Judeau,” the Swordswoman began, pausing as she bundled a load of kindling, the guilt she’d been carrying grew too heavy to hold. “About your tent and having to move from the main Hawk lines. I know it’s Griffith’s order, but-”

Judeau straightened, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow while holding a grin despite the cold around them. “Not your doing. Orders are orders. And to be honest, it’s quieter over here. Fewer snoring complaints.”

She offered a weak smile. “Still. It’s because of me you’re separated from the others.”

He shrugged, shouldering a heavy log.  “Someone’s got to keep an eye on the nobles’ firewood supply, it’s no real hardship. My old tent was getting a bt crowded. Sharing with Pippin, Rickert, and Gaston after the last supply shortage… let’s just say I wasn’t getting much sleep. Pippin alone takes up half the canvas.”

Relief washed over her, a small easing of the knot in her chest. So, he wasn’t entirely put out. “Ah. Well, in that case...”

But Judeau wasn’t finished. He heaved the log onto a growing pile, then turned back to her, “They’ll be fine, of course. The three of them. Just means they’ll have to find new arrangements now that I’ve been relocated.” He picked up his axe, testing its edge thoughtfully. “Probably squeeze in with another Hawk unit. It’s a bit of a shuffle. War, eh?”

The relief that had buoyed her spirits sank like a stone. Her comrades , now potentially without proper shelter because Griffith had pulled Judeau to watch over her. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her, sharper this time.

“Oh,” she said, the sound small and hollow. “That’s not right. They shouldn’t be displaced because of me, Judeau. Griffith shouldn’t have-”

“Hey,” he said gently, cutting off her self-recrimination.  “It’s not on you. Truly. You didn’t ask for this detail, and they’re resourceful. They’ll manage. Griffith clearly thinks you need someone trustworthy nearby, especially with everything.”

His eyes flicked towards the nobles’ distant tents.

“Maybe he thinks you’ll finally snap and set Percival’s silk pavilion on fire if left entirely to your own devices. Can’t say I’d blame you.” He chuckled.

She appreciated him trying to lighten the mood, but the weight of it remained. She looked at the pile of wood they’d gathered, meant to warm the very nobles who often treated her with disdain, and felt the bitter irony of it all. The fires they built tonight would do little to chase away the chill that had settled deep within her own heart. The campaign loomed, and with it, the culmination of a hundred years of war. Even far more personal battles.

"I don't think I need a keeper" she said.

Judeau rested his weight on the palm over his axe handle and followed her gaze into the waiting woods.

"Honestly? No- You're more than capable of fending for yourself. Probably more so than half the silk-draped nobles you're charged with protecting, if we're speaking plain truth."

"Exactly. He's hovering again." She felt a sense of relief that he at least partially understood.

"I have a theory,"

"What?"

"I think Griffith loves you."

She recoiled as if slapped. Love? The word landed like a foreign object, absurd against the landscape of their tangled, elusive history. Then, as swiftly as the shock had seized her, a profound weariness settled over her. She released a sigh laced with years of confusion and carefully guarded aches.

"Love?" A bitter scoff broke from her lips. "Sure, we've been friends forever-"

"Not friendly type of love." He corrected quickly.

She stammered for a moment and incredulously laughed,

"He doesn't treat me like he loves me."

"He certaintly doesn't treat you like he doesn't."

The reason in his voice seemed to make her faith of her own deeply held beliefs waver. "You're correct." The dueler then paused, considering her words.

Would it be wise to even admit it? Sure kissing was one thing, but Griffith was only truly loyal to his crown. She knew he at least loved a kingdom more than her, and that is the most honest she could be with herself in admitting that. As crude as it sounded, she opted that he either wanted to sleep with her out of a simple male need before having to marry off or he knows the depths of her attraction to him enough to keep her in line. A request he wanted her to follow, then a kiss. Whenever she'd voice suspicions, a kiss. At least she subliminally noted that.

"We've kissed twice since the start of the campaign damn near. I figure he wants to experience another woman before Charlotte."

Judeau's axe clattered against the frozen earth as his grip failed. Jaw slackened, eyes forming circles of astonishment. He stared, struck dumb, the only sound being a distant crow somewhere perched on a branch.

Finally, he managed to stammer,  "Well... that complicates things."

And then it dawned on her when she glanced at his face, that Griffith never truly kissed anyone.

At least she hoped.

Chapter Text

"Yeah, I figured," the Swordswoman replied, feigning something cavalier despite the thundering in her chest, as if Griffith's kisses were weather reports and not earthquakes that had shattered her foundations.

Judeau retrieved his dropped axe, "And you never kissed him before? Honestly, I'm surprised it wasn't sooner."

Before she could master her impulses, she jabbed an elbow into his ribs, a gesture so casually comradely it surprised even her. He chuckled, somehow warming the frost just a bit.

"What makes you think it would happen at all?"

"Well..." He exhaled slowly, "It's hardly been shadow work. He ensures you're always within arm's reach. Conspicuously so."

His eyes turned distant like he was flipping a book into the past, "Few months back, one of our fresh recruits, good swordsman, cocky. Mentioned his interest in you. Natural enough, I suppose, but Griffith overheard. Took precisely one day for that recruit to find himself reassigned to the vanguard. The battles rattled him so thoroughly he deserted before the moon turned."

Brows knit while her mind struggled to stitch the implications together. "Griffith is calculating, yes, but surely not that vindictive."

"I'd have agreed once, until the second occurrence. That one ended with scars he'll carry to his grave. I know because I overheard him demanding answers: why him, why always the front lines, why only him."

Her eyes narrowed. He wouldn't possess such knowledge without deliberate observation of Griffith's machinations. "Is that all?" she asked, voice tight.

"...and sharing a tent, practically dragging you from the field after even minor injuries, stationing me here as sentinel after one skirmish on this campaign. I could continue. I always believed Griffith's hunger was solely for the crown... however-"  He gave hints in his expression.

A seed of irritation bloomed in her chest, not merely because Judeau had been silently chronicling the currents between her and Griffith, but because his observations simultaneously kindled something dangerously like hope while sowing disgust at the fate of those unfortunate recruits.

"He wouldn't sacrifice everything he's built for me," she stated flatly. "Even if what you're suggesting holds truth."

Judeau sighed deeply, eyes closing briefly. He swallowed visibly before speaking again. "Agreed, but what for- I don't entirely know. I could be misreading everything. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here. Though I'd prefer not to find myself mysteriously reassigned to scouting Tudor's most lethal battalions."

"Right," She sighed. She had gathered cut chucks of wood, hoisting them over her shoulder to help Judeau. The walk back to camp was a silent accordion of crunching snow and distant camp clamor. They passed a cluster of knights huddled near a makeshift forge, their laughter dying as she approached. One, a barrel chested man with the crest of House Percival stitched into his cloak, spat into the snow.

“There goes the White Hawk’s pet. Does she fetch his firewood and his slippers?” His companions snorted, but their mirth withered when Judeau paused, turning to study the man.

“Careful, sir,” he said, hefting his axe. "You’re standing awfully close to the fire. Wouldn’t want your silks to catch.”

The knight stiffened, hand drifting to his sword, but Judeau was already moving, whistling a tavern tune as if the exchange had never happened.

The Swordswoman quickened her stride. “You shouldn’t provoke them,” she whispered, though gratitude warmed her voice.

“Provoke? I was offering fire safety advice.”  His grin faded as they rounded a supply cart. “But you’re right. Best not to linger.”

They reached the command quadrant, where Griffith’s tent stood.

“I’ll oversee the wood distribution,”

"Go on, going to gather my things and go to the lake." She nodded and he gave a brief smile before giving her the axe to put away and taking the wood that sat sore over her shoulder. She turned to place the axe away in the supply cart.

But rather than retreat immediately to Griffith's pavilion, she chose avoidance. The camp perimeter beckoned with its promise of solitude to breathe beyond the suffocating confines of politics and subliminal tides. She moved like the wind along the outskirts, checking defensive positions, nodding to sentries, finding comfort in the mundane tasks of security. Cookfires bloomed across the vast encampment like earthbound constellations, their smoke threading upward in columns. Soon she would have no excuse left to delay her return to the pavilion where unspoken tensions impatiently waited for her. As she paced the back of the nobles' tents, a sound sliced through the evening murmur- a sharp crack of flesh striking flesh, followed by a woman's muffled plea. The Swordswoman froze as she huddled to listen further at the supposed scuffles.

"Please, my lord, you're hurting me-"

"Shut your mouth. I paid good coin for you, and I'll have my money's worth."

The voice belonged to one of Percival's knights, of course, a burly man with a perpetually ruddy face and a reputation for meanness in his cups. Against the canvas of his tent, silhouettes played out a grim scene. Without conscious decision, the dueler moved. She took long stride around to the tent flap just as another blow landed, catching the woman across her cheekbone. The mistress stumbled backward, a trickle of blood beading at the corner of her mouth, her eyes shaped into circles. She was young. Younger than should be possible in this brutal world, with dark hair tumbling loose from elaborate pins.

"Think you're too good for-"

His words died as the Swordswoman's hand shot out, seizing his wrist mid-swing with a grip like iron. The sudden intervention startled him, alcohol-dulled reflexes failing to respond as she twisted, using his own momentum to shove him away from the mistress. He staggered, nearly losing his footing.

"What the-" Recognition dawned in his bloodshot eyes. "You. The Hawk bitch. This doesn't concern you."

The duelist stepped fully between him and the trembling woman without a second thought.

"Touch her again, and I'll remove your offending hand. Slowly, starting with each finger joint. A digit for every tear she's shed." She stared at him, failing to blink "And if you think your noble lord will protect you, remember- I don't care about gutting him either."

Something in her expression penetrated his drunken state. She watched his earlier courage sink into a limp puddle.

"Mad savage," He stepped back, "Keep the whore then. Probably diseased anyway."

He retreated into the shadows between tents with muttered curses and the occasional stumble, dignity in tatters. The Swordswoman turned to find the mistress straightening her disheveled clothing, trembling fingers attempting to re-pin her fallen hair. A livid mark was darkening on her cheek.

"Thank you,"  she breathed, wincing as her probing fingers found the edge of the forming bruise.  "I thought... well, it doesn't matter what I thought. You stopped him." Then, curiosity blossomed in her, "Are you one of those female mercenaries I've heard whispers about? Or are you..."

The Swordswoman paused, the question awkward in the way it landed. "I'm a mercenary,"

The woman's eyes widened. "Oh! I've seen you coming and going from the silver-haired commander's tent. The handsome one, with the eyes like winter sky."  With a smile that transformed her battered face into something unexpectedly lovely, she added, "He seems like a catch anyway, huh?"

Crickets croaked between them where what should've been was their shared laughter. The comfort woman's smile faltered under that steady gaze.

"Well, I'm Elara. From the western provinces originally." She offered a small, formal curtsy despite her dishevelment. "Thank you again for intervening. He would have- well, it would have been much worse."

In the flickering torchlight that illuminated the path between tents, Elara's bruise appeared almost black against her pale skin.

"Does this happen often?" she asked, gesturing toward the retreating knight's path. "With the Midland soldiers?"

Elara's eyes dropped, her fingers absently tracing the darkening mark on her cheek.

"More often than not, Some are merely rough, others..."

She left the sentence unfinished.

A disgusted grunt escaped the Dueler's throat. In the shifting torchlight, she took fuller measure of Elara. Features that might have graced a noblewoman's portrait in another life. Even with the bruise marring her skin, there was a beauty to her, the kind that attracted attention, both welcome and otherwise.

"How did you end up here?"

“My family carries three generations of debt to the crown. Unpaid taxes from drought years. When the collectors came, they offered alternatives. My parents, my siblings…” She straightened, chin tilting upward. “I chose this.”

Of course. The king’s greed was a serpent, always shedding its skin but never its venom. Elara wore her father’s failures like heirloom shackles, polished, perhaps, but no less heavy.

“You understand you may never return?” she said, sharper than intended. “This campaign devours lives. Yours will be no exception.”

“I’ve made peace with that.”

Peace. The women here bore scars no banner would ever honor. Returning “home” meant trading battlefield grime for a slim paid debt. Glory for men, shame for women. Both currencies of Midland’s making.

“Don’t let them bend you,” the Swordswoman breathed, stepping closer. “Not the knights, not the nobles, not even your own ghosts. You fight a different war, but it’s no lesser. Remember that when they treat you like chaff. You are stone.”

She turned to leave, the camp’s stench of sweat and rusted armor suddenly suffocating. Midland’s nobility were crows, picking at the edges of suffering-

“Wait. Please.” Elara’s voice frayed. The Swordswoman froze, glancing back. “The lake…” Elara twisted her skirt in her palms, fabric groaning under her grip. “When we bathe, the knights- they follow. Watch. Sometimes… more.” Her throat bobbed. “Would you stand guard? Or even… join us? They fear you. Your presence alone might…”

The Swordswoman went very still. “They stalk you there?”

Elara’s silence was answer enough.

“Fine” the Swordswoman said abruptly.

Relief crumpled Elara’s stiff posture, as if someone had cut the strings holding her upright. “We gather by the storage tents. Behind the nobles’ pavilions.”

The dueler gave a curt nod. “I’ll bring my blade. I need to also collect my things from the pavilion first. Soap, towel..."

"I'll inform the others. We'll wait by our quarters. Meet us there when you're ready?"

The Swordswoman nodded again, but as Elara turned to leave, there was a snag to her presence. It felt better to be sure she'd at least make it to her tent now that the dueler had seen just how hungry the midland knights could get. Without comment, she fell into step beside the mistress. Elara appeared surprised, only for a smile to warm her face. They traversed the narrow paths between tents while the Swordswoman's hand rested casually on her dagger hilt as a quiet warning to the eyes that followed their pace from shadowed entryways.

When they reached the women's quarters, Elara paused and then murmured,

"Thank you"

The Swordswoman bowed her head to her, then retraced her steps through the maze of canvas and rope toward Griffith's pavilion. She's doing a disservice to serve Midland. To herself, her blood, and to others she had yet to even meet. A schooled scowl remained over her as if needing it to ward off any simmering interest towards herself until she slipped inside the pavillion. The emptiness within it was expected. Griffith would be occupied with strategy councils until well after midnight. She moved to her corner of the tent, where her sparse personal possessions were arranged. Kneeling, she retrieved her rough-hewn soap and the threadbare linen that served as her towel, tucking them into a small leather pouch along with a clean undershirt to sleep in.

As she rose, a something clung to the corner of her eyes. On his campaign desk, normally neat and bare these nights, held a book, splayed open, its pages catching the soft glow of the oil lamp that burned low beside it. Well, that's different. Griffith rarely left anything in disarray, and never his reading materials, which he guarded with the same careful attention he gave to his weapons and armor. She glanced instinctively toward the tent entrance, confirming she was alone, then approached the desk with cautious steps.

The volume lay open, its pages illustrated with ink drawings rendered in exquisite, meticulous detail. Her eyes narrowed, then widened as recognition dawned. Her body stiffened, a sudden heat flooding her face as she processed what she was seeing.

It was an eastern text of carnal knowledge- but not the crude, bawdy versions sometimes passed among soldiers. This was clearly a scholarly edition, bound in tooled leather, its pages of fine vellum covered with elegant script surrounding the explicit illustrations. Bodies intertwined in positions both familiar and seemingly impossible, rendered with an artist's careful attention to musculature and proportion. She glanced sharply over her shoulder, half-expecting to find Griffith watching her discovery yet the air was still. That was when she dared to step closer, allowing herself to truly examine the book's whispers. Her fingers hovered over the pages, afraid that the day's dirt gathered on her fingers would leave guilty markings. The open spread depicted a man and woman locked in an embrace that seemed to require both flexibility and considerable strength, their faces captured in expressions of ecstasy that made her throat bone dry. She turned a page, then another, each illustration more elaborate than the last. In some drawings, the woman was clearly dominant, controlling the man and sex with confident power; in others, she yielded completely to her partner's guidance. The Swordswoman's breath came faster now, her skin prickling with awareness. Why would Griffith have this?

Why the hell is he reading this now? While they shared this canvas sanctuary? While they danced around unspoken tensions and stolen glances?

The conclusion was enough to make her take unnoticed steps back. she contemplated not even bringing it up to him at all. Surely, this must've been a mistake. A soldier must've snuck through- feasting their eyes over stolen pages, it only made sense with how perversive they seemed. She turned, gathering her bathing supplies with efficient haste. The promise made to Elara provided a perfect excuse to flee the pavilion's increasingly oppressive atmosphere. The thought of the lake's open shore, even in winter's grip, seemed suddenly preferable to these canvas walls that felt more like a trap with each passing moment.

Without a backward glance, she ducked through the tent flap into the night air. Outside, the cold was present but natural. the honest chill of approaching winter rather than the unnerving, bone-deep frost that had invaded the pavilion. She drew a deep breath, steadying herself, then set off with purposeful strides toward the comfort women's quarters.

The campaign was the only thing that mattered, getting out alive, doing her duties and getting her revenge for her father. Some part of her was thankful that she was protecting these nobles. It looked better in the king's eyes. At least until his final moments when he would be killed by her hand or Griffith's. Her eyes narrowed at the thought. In fact, this makes more sense than anything else that Griffith would do. Position themselves in favorable light until the very end.

She pushed these thoughts aside, focusing instead on her promise to Elara and the others. The women's quarters buzzed with activity as the Swordswoman approached. Elara stood outside, surrounded by five other women, their faces brightening when they spotted her advancing through the shadows. Their expressions shifted from wariness to something resembling awe- an unexpected reaction that made the Swordswoman's stride falter momentarily.

"She came," Elara announced, pride coloring her voice.  "Just as she promised."

The women regarded her with loud fascination, their eyes had seen knights, nobles, and commanders, but a woman warrior was a rarity that stirred in them beyond curiosity. It was admiration.

"The female Hawk," whispered one of them, a willowy blonde with clever eyes.

"They say you've killed thirty men in single combat."

"I heard it was fifty," murmured another, her accent marking her as Northern.

The Swordswoman stirred uncomfortably under their reverent gazes.

"There is more than just me. Casca and Mule..." She drifted as she searched the women's eyes to realize they hadn't even met the rest of the Hawks, nor did it seem like her modesty was getting through to them. "We should go," she said gruffly, heat crawling up her neck. "Before it grows later."

The mistresses gathered their meager bathing supplies, and buckets. Then they fell into step around her like a strange honor guard. One of them, a robust, practical-looking woman with auburn hair coiled in a tight braid, carried a large pot.

"Marielle always thinks ahead,"  Elara explained, nodding toward the pot-bearer while she carried her own. "She'll heat water for rinsing. Makes all the difference in this cursed cold. No worries, we have a bucket for you"

"Smart, especially with winter tightening its grip. It's appreciated" The swordswoman acknowledged.

It was surprisingly pleasant pacing with them. Their chatter flowed like a gentle current that seemed at least somewhat interesting. They were smoke through the camp, skirting cookfires and guard posts, slipping between tent ropes. It was a shame to hide amongst allies. By the lake, Marielle knelt to strike flint. Sparks leapt, catching dry tinder, and flames unfurled with a crackle-hiss while the others arranged buckets in a half-circle.

"Edgar is the worst of them," the Northern woman, Thea, she'd introduced herself, commented while dropping her bucket beside crackling flames under iron. "Always wanting to leave marks where they'll show. It's deliberate, like he's branding cattle."

Elara’s snort cut through the steam rising from her bucket. She cupped icy lake water to her face, flinching as it met the plum dark bruise blooming on her cheekbone. “Percival’s subtler. Waits until you’re half-drowned in silk cushions to play his games.” Her fingers lingered at her throat, where faint fingerprints lingered like ghostly lace

"It's all politics with these men. Even in bed, they're fighting their little wars. Lyle's the only decent one among them," Marielle called from where she tended the heating water.

"Never touches us, but makes sure we're fed properly. Even stopped Sir Gareth from taking Thea when she was feverish last month."

The Swordswoman's head snapped up, "Lyle?" she muttered, disbelief coloring the name. "The same Lord Lyle who makes everything sound like a proposition?"

"Oh, he does," Nessa confirmed with a chuckle, "but he's not after what you think. At least from my experience."

"He's never requested any of us. Not once. The other lords call him 'bloodless' behind his back."

Elara said as she began to tip her bucket in the pot for hot water.  By now the women werein a line to get steaming buckets, only to settle on the bank where they began to undress. Though it was out of place, the dueler found her modesty taking hold, gathering hot water for herself and turning away from the women to undress.

"Bloodless?" The Swordswoman frowned.

"Some men simply aren't driven by those appetites,"

Marielle explained, returning with the heated water and pouring it carefully over her shoulder, sighing in relief.

"Lyle's passion is for intrigue, for knowing secrets. Not for bedding women for that matter. In fact, I heard from another mistress back in Wyndham that the queen had a long affair with Julius and that his death was covered up by the king from jealousy."  She whispered and scoffed, "and not only that. She had multiple affairs."

Well, that is the perfect diversion for the true culprit and purpose. It was possible his interest was indeed analytical rather than carnal, no less unnerving. She knows to guard her secrets around the man.

"How does he get all this information?" She asked, wondering how falsity is speculated.

"Mentioned that the queen fell suspicious of the king, but he also mentioned that she was privy to having men from military within her chambers- men tend to spill secrets and gossip more than we ever think."

Thea said. The swordswoman grunted with narrow eyes. "Well, I know what glitters isn't so gold. The midland monarch seem to have inherented scandals left and right"

"Happens with monarchy many times, of course." Elara chimed.

Marielle poured warm water down Thea's back, drawing a contented sigh. "They say Queen Charlotte's first lover was a common soldier. Got her with child during the spring equinox celebrations."

Elara paused in wringing out her dark hair. "My cousin served in the palace kitchens. Swore she saw the queen wrapping a stillborn in embroidered linen from her own bedchamber."

The Swordswoman kept her back to the group. She was keen to their conversation and didn't want to seem like she was far too interested.

Nessa snorted. "The real scandal was General something... I don't remember his name. Before your time, but they say he refused the queen's advances during the Brynhold campaign. She had him stripped of rank. Poetic justice when Tudor bandits killed him years later."

Ice needled through the Swordswoman's veins. She already had enough supply of hatred for the king, but she suspects she'll feel hatred for the queen soon enough.

"Kael?" The swordswoman asked, against her instinct.

"Ah, yes. Do you know of the tale?" Nessa asked as she glanced at the woman. "Heard a bit of it, but thats all. Do you happen to know more?"

"Lord Lyle knows more about it." T hea murmured, wringing lavender oil through her hair. "He paid Giselle three gold after she repeated Duke Reginald's sleep-talking. Something about poisoned hunting arrows."

The swordswoman grunted in reply, her expression unreadable as her thoughts churned. She’d expected uncovering royal secrets to be like sifting needles from a haystack. Instead, she’d stumbled into a labyrinth of truths deeper than she’d ever imagined. No wonder Griffith navigates politics so effortlessly, she mused. The answers had been glaringly obvious, yet hidden in plain sight. Now, her attention sharpened on Lyle, whose knowledge stretched beyond her assumptions. She bit her tongue, wary of craving more than she could safely digest. Already, the nobles’ scrutinizing gazes and the weight of their company unsettled her but this gnawing urge to probe Lyle about her father eclipsed it all. Laban and Owen’s accounts had once felt sufficient. Now, they seemed mere fragments of a story only Lyle could complete.

The bucket’s lingering warm water clung to their skin as they rinsed to rid themselves of soap sudds. What had begun as a perfunctory ritual had stretched into something fragile and sacred, the kind of silence that pooled between them not as absence, but as solidarity. They slipped into their sleeping garments and then Thea broke the silence while fastening her frayed sash, “Three weeks,” she said, yanking the knot tight. “That’s how long since we last washed without some chivalrous fool, stumbling upon’ the women’s bathing area. Yesterday, Sir What’s-His-Spur spent ten minutes ‘admiring the moonlight’ through the goddamned alder branches.”

Elara laughed. She didn’t look up from lacing her boots, but her hands stilled.  “You’re being unfair, Thea. Last Tuesday’s knight was very creative. Claimed he mistook our towels for siege banners.” Her gaze lifted then, finding the Swordswoman’s and the humor died in her eyes, “It’s not mockery that stops them now. It’s you.”

The Dueler's throat tightened. She recognized the weight settling beneath her ribs. Not just fury at the men’s boldness, but shame, too. How many times had she dismissed camp women as part of the scenery, their vulnerabilities as unremarkable as tent stakes or latrine ditches? Thea tossed her a threadbare drying cloth.

“Don’t look so grim. Today, the water stayed clean. No grime, no leers. Small victories, right?” Small. The word gnawed at her. That a single bath unmarred by violation should feel like a triumph.

They walked back through the pines, the comfort women drifting nearer until their shoulders brushed hers. Not deference, she realized, but the tentative proximity of deer edging toward a campfire. At the quiltslashed entrance to their quarters, Elara hesitated. Her calloused fingers grazed the Swordswoman’s wrist, fleeting.

“You’ll come back?” she asked, and it wasn’t a question about baths. The plea hung between them: Stay. See us. Remember we’re here.

The Swordswoman’s nod came too quickly. “When I can.”

The return trek to command’s pavilion felt foreign, as if the camp itself had shifted in her absence. The overlapping guffaws of off-duty knights curdled in her ears. You knew, she accused herself. You just never let it matter before. She nearly missed the pavilion entirely, her mind adrift in the storm of Elara's gratitude and Thea’s performative spite. When she finally shouldered through the tent flap, craving the numb sanctuary of her cot, the air changed.

Oil lamps glowed.

Griffith had his bare back turned to her as his eyes stilled over his wardrobe. Perfect in proportion, sculpted by some divine hand for the express purpose of making mortals ache at the sight. Scars traced delicate patterns across his shoulders and ribs, not marring but somehow enhancing his perfection, telling stories of battles survived, pain transcended. The book's illustrations flashed unbidden through her mind, superimposing themselves over the reality before her with jarring vividness. Heat bloomed across her skin despite the chill that still lingered in the pavilion's air. She remained motionless, caught between retreat and acknowledgment, her body seemingly incapable of either. She took a reflexive step back, the tent flap whispering against her shoulders. Griffith stilled at the sound, then turned as if he'd been anticipating this exact moment.

"I heard you enter. Please, come in. No need to hover at the threshold."

She remained motionless, caught between conflicting impulses, her eyes betraying her with a quick, glance toward the desk where the Karma Sutra had been. The surface lay bare, meticulously organized, no trace of sin anywhere. Quite the opposite now.

"How was your bath with the mistresses?"

Her head snapped up, "How did you-"

"Judeau mentioned it," Griffith interrupted, looking at his trunk and then closing it. "He saw you escorting them to the lake. Rather gallant of you."

Of course. Judeau's placement near the command center, his watchful eye was not just protection but surveillance. A faithful report delivered to Griffith about her movements, her associations, perhaps even her conversations.

"It was... nice," she answered after a pause.

Griffith moved to unfurl his bedroll beside the cot. As he knelt, arranging the blankets, she realized with a jolt that he intended to sleep without his shirt, his torso still bare in the lamplight. The only thing dressed on his upper half was the red egg he was always intent on wearing.

"That's unwise," she blurted, gesturing toward his exposed skin. "The night grows bitter. You'll freeze without proper covering."

He glanced up with amusement, "My clothes are drying after washing," he explained, smoothing a wrinkle from the bedroll.

"It's not unusual for me. The body adapts." She felt heat creeping up her neck as she tried to avoid staring at the lean muscle of his shoulders.

"Take the cot tonight," she offered abruptly, desperation bleeding into her voice. "I'll use the bedroll. The ground retains some warmth, at least."

"I couldn't possibly," he demurred, "You worked hard today. You need proper rest."

She knelt by her belongings, fingers digging through folded linens with unnecessary force. The spare shirt emerged from the pile. She thrust it toward Griffith without meeting his eyes.

"Here. It's clean."

He accepted the garment, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact sparked a current that traveled up her arm, settling uneasily in her chest. "Your chivalry is unexpected,"

he remarked, draping the shirt over his shoulders but not yet fastening it. The lamplight traced the arc of his collarbone, casting shadows that seemed to map territories she’d sworn not to explore.

She crossed to the cot, her back to him. "It’s practicality. A leader with frostbite is useless."

A low laugh slipped from him. "Always so dutiful. Tell me, did the mistresses appreciate their guardian? Or do they mistake your vigilance for something softer?"

The question froze her mid-motion. She turned slowly, finding his gaze sharp despite the languid pose. "They deserve dignity. Even here."

"Ah. And you’ve appointed yourself their champion. How noble." He buttoned the shirt slow. The words should have been praise. From him, they sounded like a trap.

She bristled. "You disapprove?"

"Not at all." He smiled, "Its chilvarous." Griffith's fingers paused on the third button of her borrowed shirt. "Their plight seems to trouble you.Tomorrow, I'll station two Hawks at the lakeside during bathing hours. Veterans who understand discretion."

The Swordswoman froze "You'd spare men for that?"

"Not spare. Repurpose. Our new recruits need lessons in perimeter vigilance. This serves both purposes."

She studied the careful slope of his shoulders and the distance he kept. "Thank you."

The silence had sat with them. Griffith finally turned with the lamplight gilding his profile. "You should rest."

They moved through the nightly ritual like familiar partners, her rolling onto the cot facing the canvas wall, him lying precisely a handspan beyond the bedroll's edge after he blew out the lamp. The cold between them felt alive, breathing.

"Someone disturbed my desk earlier," he murmured into the dark.

Her knuckles whitened on the blanket. "Oh?" shit. She remembered she turned it back to the correct page.

"The book from Lord Percival's collection lay open where I hadn't left it. Curious, given our thief's usual discretion."

Or she was wrong and had hallucinated such a thing.

Her heart began to sprit in her chest. "Didn't touch it. Could've been the wind." A rustle of linen sounded as he shifted.

"Strange. I'd thought perhaps you'd taken interest in its educational diagrams."

Her cheeks burned."Why would I?"

"I mean I found it more useful for understanding our enemy's distractions. Though truthfully, I had it for Charlotte." he added after a timely pause.

For Charlotte was a word that plagued her more than sickness at this point.The Swordswoman exhaled slowly. Of course. Everything weaponized, even intimacy. "Okay, I lied. Burn it."

"Its already hidden" Sheets whispered as he sat up. "Though I'll admit curiosity, what page caught your eye? The lotus position? The waterfall embrace?"

She spun to face him, outrage masking her features, "The one where the woman breaks her partner's nose with a knee strike."

His laugh bloomed warm and unexpected. "Ah, that's something that suits you."

For some reason, that had her clearing her throat. "Did it plenty of times." She attempted to joke.

He sighed as his laugh petered out. After a bit of silence, something tugged in her to ask about monarch gossip. Griffith knows more than he ever says but she could possibly appease him to tell her more of his plans.

"Apparently mistresses know plenty of things. About the monarch. They told me about the queen having affairs and Lyle knowing a lot more." She muttered.

"Did you ask them that or did they simply speak it?"

"They just told me."

“I see. When did they?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “While we were bathing. Why?”

“The queen’s dalliance is hardly a secret. Curious they’d discuss it outside camp.”

“To avoid Midland knights, I’d guess.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, sinking onto the bedroll.

Silence stretched until his breathing deepened, steady and rhythmic. his back turned to her, silver hair spilling over the rough pillow. Asleep already. She stifled a sigh. The darkness hid her restless eyes, sparing her the temptation to watch him. Judeau’s words coiled in her mind. But why couldn’t it be mutual? It was mutual. She knew it, even as she buried the truth beneath duty. She loved him, for years she had. Separating after this-resuming their roles, would feel like severing a limb. Had he insisted on sharing this tent because it might be their last chance? Yet he’d dismissed the notion outright. Unless… Her throat tightened. Was this his way of seizing an affair? Griffith, who wielded charm like a blade but recoiled from vulnerability. Now the mistresses proclomation of nearly every noble, even the queen herself, having an affair felt like being surrounded by the disease of sin. Griffith surely wasn't immune to it. Griffith, whose discipline rivaled his ambition. Had he ever had intercourse or an affair? Her thoughts snagged, heat pricking her cheeks. That damned book. It had wedged doubt into cracks she’d refused to acknowledge. She clenched her jaw, shut her eyes, and willed the questions to dissolve.

Chapter Text

Griffith as a child was smart. Smarter than most adults even.

If the dueler was older than ten at this time, it would've honestly scared her. Now she can't even truly imagine what goes on in his head, most guesses are just educated based on the moves he's made before. Hence her constant suspicions. Crossing him didn't mean detonating a bomb, but instead, it meant facing a decrepit sickness where the effects couldn't be realized until only after the fact.

It was colder than usual. She knew it because she was lost, trying to win hide and seek with the baker's son, William, nearby. It started raining, cloth shoes soaked up cloud tears that had pooled in potholes while she ran ceaselessly looking in between alleys for a figure slightly taller than her. The sun had already dipped, and finding him was next to impossible. Cobblestones glistened like black mirrors under torchlight as rain began to patter against the narrow alleyways of the lower town. What had started as gentle droplets now drummed against thatched roofs and wooden shutters, creating a mask over the sound of small, hurried footsteps.

"William?" The young dueler's voice carried through the maze of cramped buildings, already hoarse from calling out. Hair clung to her face and her simple brown dress, one of only two she owned, was soaked through. "William, where are you?"

She pressed herself against the cold stone wall of the miller's shop, peering into shadows between rain barrels and wooden crates. This was their favorite hiding spot during their games, but tonight it yielded nothing but the scurrying of rats and steady drips of water from broken gutters. The game had started like any other evening adventure. William, with his gap-toothed grin and flour-dusted apron, had challenged her to their usual contest.

"Bet you can't find me before the church bells ring nine times!"   he'd declared, already backing toward his favorite hiding places near the market square.

That felt like hours ago now.

Bare feet splashed through growing puddles as she retraced her steps once more. Past the blacksmith's forge, now cold and dark. Around the corner where the fishmonger's stall stood empty, reeking of the day's catch. Through the narrow passage where laundry lines hung like banners in the night.

"This isn't funny anymore, William!" she called out, though her voice cracked with something closer to worry than anger. The rain was coming down harder now, turning the packed earth between buildings into slick mud that made each step harder.

She thought of Griffith back at their cottage, probably wondering where she'd gone. He'd told her to be careful, to not wander too far after dark. The town wasn't always safe for orphans like them, especially young girls. But William was her friend, one of the few children who didn't whisper about the strange girl with the wooden practice sword, who lived with the silver-haired boy in the abandoned cottage. Thunder rumbled overhead as she made her way toward the baker's shop. Maybe he'd grown tired of hiding. Maybe he'd remembered he had to help his father with the morning bread preparations.

Maybe…

The warm glow spilling from the baker's windows stopped her short. Through the rain-streaked glass, she could see the familiar shape of William's family gathered around their dinner table. And there, laughing at something his mother had said, sat William himself. Dry, warm, and completely oblivious to the girl who'd spent the last three hours searching for him in the rain.

The young girl stood there, water streaming from her hair and clothes, watching the scene of domestic warmth she would never quite belong to. Hands clenched into small fists at her sides with an ache she couldn't quite name. It wasn’t necessarily anger; she knew that. She turned away from the golden window and began the long walk home through the storm. Her footsteps were silent now, no longer calling out nor reaching. Just a small figure moving through the rain like a ghost returning to where it belonged.

The cottage door creaked as she pushed it open, expecting to find Griffith asleep or sharpening his sword by candlelight. Instead, she found him sitting by their small window, still dressed, obviously waiting.

"You're soaked," he said simply, not asking where she'd been or why she looked like she'd been caught in a tempest. She stood in the doorway, dripping rainwater onto their worn wooden floor, and for a moment she looked every bit the lost child she'd been when he'd found her two years ago, scared and alone and trying desperately not to cry.

“We were playing hide and seek and he left me out there." she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Griffith studied her face in the dim candlelight, seeing more than she realized. Without a word, he rose and fetched their only clean towel, threadbare but dry, and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"William, I presume?" he said quietly, guiding her toward the small hearth where dying embers still held a whisper of warmth. "The rules change when you're not looking."

She nodded, understanding flowing between them in the way it always did. They were orphans in a world that had little patience for orphans, friends in a place where friendship was a luxury few could afford. But they had each other, and in the flickering light of their small cottage, that felt like enough.

Griffith move, pulling out the rickety wooden chair by their small table. "Sit," he said gently with care yet, authoritative.

The young girl sank into the chair, still wrapped in the towel, watching as he ladled what remained of their evening stew into a chipped ceramic bowl. The broth was thinner than it had been hours ago, and the vegetables had grown soft from sitting over the dying coals, but steam still rose as tiny spirits escaping into the cool air. After he placed the bowl down, he retreated to begin cleaning their few dishes. Then there was silence, comfortable in the way that only existed between people who understood each other's wounds. She ate, more to please him than from hunger.

"Why would William do that?" she asked finally, her spoon clinking against the bowl's rim.

Griffith paused, his hands still in the basin of cold water they used for washing. He spoke like someone who had learned life's harder lessons far too early.

"People forget that their actions ripple beyond themselves," he said, scrubbing at their cooking pot. "William went home to warmth and supper and the comfort of knowing where he belonged. He probably never thought that you were still out there, searching. It's not cruelty, it's the blindness that comes from having a place in the world."

She absorbed his words, recognizing the truth in them even as they stung.

"We see things differently because we have to," Griffith continued, setting the clean pot aside. "When you have nothing guaranteed, you remember that other people's feelings matter. When others have everything they need, they sometimes forget that not everyone shares their fortune."

She finished the last spoonful of stew and watched as he moved to clean their other meager utensils, his white hair catching the candlelight like spun silver. Even at twelve, he carried himself with a maturity older than many of the adults who lived around them.

"Stop," she sighed, standing and letting the towel fall from her shoulders. "I'll help after I finish eating."

"You don't need to-"

"Yes, I do. You waited for me. You didn't ask questions or make me feel foolish. The least I can do is help clean our kitchen."

Griffith turned to look at her with pride or recognition of the strength she was already learning to carry. He nodded once and stepped aside, making room for her at the washbasin.

"Besides," she added, picking up their wooden cups, "someone needs to make sure you don't break our last good bowl."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"It happened once," he said.

"Twice,"she corrected.

They worked side by side in their small kitchen, two orphans who had learned to make a home from nothing more than shared understanding and quiet devotion. Outside, the storm raged on, but within their cottage walls, was only the gentle sound of water and the comfortable silence of family, chosen rather than born.

Next morning, the sun casted long shadows between the market stalls as merchants called out their wares and the familiar chaos of trade filled the air. The young girl, walked beside Griffith, their small purse, carefully counted and recounted, clutched in his pale hand.

"Get the bread first," Griffith murmured, scanning the bustling square.

"Old Henrik sometimes has yesterday's loaves for half price if we're early enough." She nodded, but her attention had already been caught by a small stall tucked between the cloth merchant and the spice trader. Wooden toys sat arranged on a faded blanket, carved horses with leather reins, painted tops in brilliant colors, small wooden swords that reminded her of her own practice blade.

"I'll just look for a moment," she said, already drifting toward the display.

Griffith followed her gaze,  "Don't be long and stay where I can see you."

The toy merchant, an elderly woman with kind eyes, smiled as the swordswoman crouched beside the blanket.

"Like anything you see, child?"

"They're beautiful,"she whispered, running her finger along the smooth surface of a carved bird that looked ready to take flight. She had no coin to spend on such luxuries, but there was no harm in dreaming.

"Hey! There you are!"

The familiar voice made her stomach clench. She turned to see William approaching, his face flushed and his baker's apron already stained with flour despite the early hour.

"William," she said carefully, straightening to face him.

"I've been looking for you everywhere!" His tone carried an accusation that made her bristle. "You haven't come to play with me in days. Why are you avoiding me?"

Her brows furrow in immediate irritation, "Avoiding you?" Her voice rose despite her attempt to stay calm."You left me searching for you in the rain for three hours!"

"What are you talking about?" William's confusion seemed genuine, which somehow made it worse.

"The night we played hide and seek," she said, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.  "I looked everywhere for you while it poured rain. You just went home without telling me the game was over!"

William's shoulders scrunched, "So? I got tired and cold. It's not my fault you kept looking. It's just a game."

"Just a game?" She hissed, "I was soaked in rain! I searched until I could barely stand!"

“Well you should’ve known I had a curfew, but I guess living in that broken-down cottage with that strange boy, made you not even realize they exist!"  William shot back.

The insult to Griffith was the final straw. She yelled out in rage, stepping closer to him.

"Don't you dare, you bastard-!” She never finished the sentence. William's hands shot out and shoved her hard, sending her stumbling backward into the toy stall. Carved animals scattered as she caught herself against the merchant's table.

Without thinking, she launched herself forward, tackling William around the waist. They went down in a tangle of limbs, rolling across the dirt between the market stalls. Her fist connected with his cheek as he tried to grab her hair, both of them fighting with the desperate intensity that only children could muster.

"Stop! Stop this instant!" The toy merchant was calling out, but neither combatant paid attention.

Then suddenly, a massive hand clamped around the swordswoman's arm, hauling her up and away from William with brutal force.

"Get your filthy hands off my son!"

She found herself staring up at William's father- a bear practically whose arms were thick as tree trunks from years of kneading dough and hauling grain sacks.

The baker's hand came down like a falling hammer.

The world exploded into stars and darkness as his knuckles connected with the side of her head. Pain shot through her skull and down her neck as she crumpled to the ground, her vision swimming with black spots. Through the ringing in her ears, she could hear voices, shouting, arguing, the sound of running footsteps. Then familiar hands were on her shoulders, gentle but urgent, and she looked up through blurred vision to see Griffith kneeling beside her, his face white with fury she had never seen before.

"Don't move." His voice was deadly quiet as he helped her sit up, his pale eyes locked on the baker who stood above them, already beginning to look uncertain about what he'd just done.

The market had gone silent around them, a circle of shocked onlookers witnessing something that had crossed far beyond a simple children's quarrel. The swordswoman tasted blood in her mouth and felt the world tilt dangerously as she tried to focus on Griffith's face.

In that moment, she saw something in his expression that would stay with her for years to come the cold, calculating look of someone deciding exactly how much revenge was worth the consequences.

The tension in the market square was thick enough to cut with a blade as Griffith slowly rose to his feet, his movements deliberate and controlled. Every eye was on him now, waiting to see what the strange white-haired boy would do. The baker still stood there, his massive frame casting a shadow over them both, but something in Griffith's expression made the larger man take an unconscious step backward.

"I think," Griffith said quietly,"there's been enough excitement for one morning."

His pale blue eyes swept the crowd of onlookers before settling on the baker. When he spoke again, his tone held the kind of diplomatic smoothness that seemed far too polished for a twelve year old orphan.

"Master Henrik, your son seems upset. Perhaps it would be best if you took him home to tend to those scratches."

His gaze flicked to William, who was indeed sporting a red mark on his cheek where the swordswoman had connected.

"I'm sure your wife will want to fuss over him properly."

The baker's face was still swimmng with anger, but he grew uncertain. He looked around at the watching crowd, many of whom were his customers, and seemed to realize that hitting a small girl, orphan or not, didn't paint him in the most favorable light.

"She had no right to attack my boy," he blustered without the earlier conviction.

"Children fight," Griffith replied with a slight shrug, "It's unfortunate when adults must involve themselves in such childish disputes."

William tugged at his father's apron, suddenly eager to be away from the many staring eyes. "Papa, can we go? My face hurts."

The baker looked down at his son, then back at Griffith, who waited with the patience of someone who had already won the conversation. Finally, he grunted and placed a protective hand on William's shoulder.

"Stay away from my son," he said, but it came out more like a request than a threat.

"Of course," Griffith agreed with perfect politeness. "I'm sure our paths need not cross unnecessarily."

The father and son melted into the crowd, leaving Griffith to kneel beside the swordswoman once more. Spectators began to disperse, sensing the show was over, though many cast lingering glances back at the two orphans. Griffith's diplomatic mask slipped away the moment they had relative privacy. His hands were gentle but urgent as he examined the side of her face where the baker's fist had connected. Already, an angry bruise was beginning to bloom across her cheekbone, and her left eye was starting to swell.

"Can you see clearly?" he asked.

She blinked a few times, testing her sight. "Mostly. Everything's a bit... fuzzy on the left side."

Tendons flex in his jaw as he helped her to her feet, steadying her when she swayed slightly.  "Any dizziness? Nausea?"

"A little dizzy," she admitted, leaning against him more heavily than she wanted to.

Griffith's scowl deepened as he took in her condition. "We're going home. Now." He wrapped a supportive arm around her waist.  "You need to rest, and I need to make sure that bastard didn't do any lasting damage."

The venom in his voice when he spoke of the baker was so cold it made her shiver. She'd never heard Griffith speak with such barely restrained violence, and it both frightened and comforted her.

"The shopping-" she began weakly.

"-Can wait. It can wait."  He guided her slowly through the market, his eyes constantly scanning for any sign that she might collapse.  "Nothing is more important than making sure you're all right."

As they made their way home through the winding streets, the young swordsman caught glimpses of the boy who would someday command armies in the careful way he supported her weight. But for now, he was simply her friend, her protector, getting her safely home after the world had shown them once again how little it cared for orphaned children. The walk home passed in a blur of careful steps and whispered reassurances. The afternoon sun felt too bright against her throbbing head, and she found herself grateful for the shadows that shielded her between alleyways.

"Tell me what happened," Griffith said quietly as they paused at a street corner, letting a cart loaded with hay rumble past. "What made you go after him like that?"

She winced as speaking made her jaw ache, but the words came out in a rush of lingering anger and hurt, "He said it wasn't his fault I kept looking for him that night. Called it 'just a game' like I was being dramatic for caring that he left me out there. Then he said maybe if I wasn’t living in our 'broken-down cottage' with my 'strange boy,' I'd understand how normal curfew was."

She felt the muscles in his arm tense against her back.  "He said that?"

"The part about you is what made me really angry," she admitted, "I could take him being cruel about me, but not about you.”

It became quiet as they resumed walking.

"So you defended our honor."

"I defended our family," she corrected, and felt him nod against her shoulder.

Their cottage came into view, small and patched but theirs. Griffith helped her up the single wooden step and through the door, guiding her immediately to their one comfortable chair- a piece they'd found abandoned behind the nearby tavern and painstakingly repaired together.

"Sit here," he ordered gently, already moving toward their small collection of herbs and remedies they'd gathered over the years. "Don't move until I say so."

She sank into the chair with a grateful sigh, watching as he bustled around their tiny kitche. He filled their washbasin with clean water, gathered clean rags, and began crushing dried herbs between his palms as if he were an apothecary.

"You know," she said, unable to suppress a small smile despite the pain,

"you fuss over me like a mother hen sometimes."

Griffith paused in his herb-crushing and glanced over at her, one pale eyebrow raised.

"A mother hen?"

"More like a mother to me than anything else, really."  She said.

To her surprise, he chuckled, "I suppose someone has to keep you from getting yourself killed," he said, returning to his preparations. "Though I have to say, you make it quite challenging sometimes."

He approached with a damp cloth infused with crushed herbs.

"Hold still," he murmured, his voice gentling as he began to clean the cut on her lip where her teeth had caught the inside of her mouth. "You're quite hard-headed yourself, you know," he continued, dabbing at the bruising around her eye. "Literally, in this case. I think you gave William's father more of a shock than he gave you."

She tried not to wince as he worked, but his touch was so gentle it barely hurt. "Is that your medical opinion?"

"My medical opinion, is that you'll live to cause me many more gray hairs before we're through."

"You won't be able to see them, they'll blend with your hair."

He chuckled as his fingers brushed against her forehead as he adjusted the compress, and for a moment she was struck by how naturally this came to him; he seemed to know exactly what she needed before she asked for it. It was as if he'd been born to take care of people, though she suspected the world would demand far different things from him as he grew older.

"There," he said softly, settling back on his heels to examine his work. "The swelling should go down by tomorrow if you keep that compress on it. And no more fighting the baker's son."

"What if they insult you again?"

"Then you come find me, and we handle it together. No more going into battle alone, understood?"

She nodded, then immediately regretted it as her head throbbed in protest. "Understood."

He smiled then,  "Good. Now rest while I see about making us some proper dinner. All this excitement has made me hungry."

As he rose and moved back toward their small kitchen, the swordswoman closed her eyes and let the familiar sounds of home wash over her,the soft clink of dishes, the rustle of herbs, the quiet humming that Griffith did when he thought no one was listening.

Then these patterns started and they’ve been going on for weeks now.

She'd wake in the early morning darkness to find Griffith's makeshift bed empty, the thin blanket pulled neat and tidy as if he'd never been there at all. Sometimes she'd catch the soft whisper of the door closing, or glimpse a flash of white hair disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom through their cracked window. He always returned before full daylight, moving with that careful quietness he'd perfected, but there were signs if you knew how to look.

This morning was no different. She stirred to wakefulness as pale sunlight filtered through their window, immediately aware of the empty. The cottage felt hollow without his presence, too quiet.

When he returned an hour later, she was sitting at their small table, watching the door with open curiosity.

"You're up early," he said, as he hung his thin cloak on its wooden peg.

"So are you," she replied, studying his face. "You've been leaving before dawn for weeks now. Where do you go?"

Griffith paused in his movements, his back still turned to her. For a moment, she thought he might deflect the question. But he didn’t.

"Practicing," he said simply, moving toward their washbasin. "More than usual."

"Practicing what? And why so early? Why not take me with you?"

He splashed water on his face, "Sword work. Forms. Things that require concentration."

There was something in his voice that made her frown. She knew that tone; she used it herself when Griffith asked questions she wasn't ready to answer fully.

"You could concentrate with me there," she pointed out. "We always practice together."

Griffith dried his face with their shared towel and when he looked at her again, there was something different in his pale eyes. It was older, somehow.

"Have you ever thought," he said quietly, settling into the chair across from her,"about what it feels like when people close to you die, but you continue to live?"

A pin could echo in this silence that came between them. That question so heavy and out of the blue, that for a moment she could only stare at him.

"What kind of question is that?" she whispered.

"An honest one. Your father. Your village. Everyone you knew before me. They're gone, but you're here. How does that feel?"

She felt her throat tighten while old wounds that never fully healed began to ache again. "Griffith, why are you asking me this?"

"Because I need to understand, I need to know if the guilt ever stops feeling like it's crushing you. If you ever stop wondering why you deserved to survive when they didn't."

She looked at him and saw past the careful composure to the boy beneath, the one who carried his own collection of scars and losses that he rarely spoke about.

"Sometimes I dream about them," she finally answered in a whisper, "My father. The other children from our village. And in the dreams, they ask me why I get to grow up when they don't. Why I get to have you, and safety, and a future, when they're just... gone."

Griffith nodded. It was as if her words confirmed something he'd already suspected.

"But then I wake up," she continued, "and I remember that someone pulled me from that burning village. Someone chose to save me, to take care of me, to give me a chance at living. And I think... maybe the guilt isn't about deserving to survive. Maybe it's about what you do with the life you've been given." She reached across the table and touched his hand, cold despite the warming day."You saved me, Griffith. Whatever you're thinking about in those early morning hours, whatever you're practicing for, remember that you gave meaning to my survival just by caring about me."

He turned his hand palm up and squeezed her fingers, but he looked as though he remained troubled.

"What if caring isn't enough?" he asked quietly. "What if the world demands more than that?"

She had no answers. That was something she couldn’t quite know at her age, so she didn’t say a word back.

To her ignorance, her answer didn’t stop what was coming.

The trap took Griffith three days of meticulous planning.

He observed William’s routine, how the boy arrived at the mill with his father every Tuesday and Thursday before dawn to help grind the week’s flour. He noted the layout: the massive waterwheel, creaking gears, and the central grinding stone, a monstrous slab of granite driven by a complex system of wooden cogs and leather belts. Most importantly, he studied the mill’s weakest point, the iron pin securing the drive shaft coupling the waterwheel to the grinding mechanism. It was old, pitted with rust, but thick as a man’s wrist.

On the chosen morning, Griffith slipped into the mill under cover of moonless darkness. He moved silently, a shadow among the flour-dusted hearth. His target wasn’t the pin itself, but the heavy oak beam supporting the shaft housing directly above it. Using a stolen chisel and mallet, he carefully carved a deep, precise groove into the beam’s underside, hidden from casual view. Into this groove, he wedged a thick, brittle wedge of dried river clay he’d prepared days earlier, baking it rock hard near their cottage fire.

It looked like nothing more than accumulated grime.

His final touch was subtle sabotage. He poured a slow trickle of rendered animal fat, stolen from the butcher’s scrap pile, onto the leather drive belt where it passed over a guide pulley near the ceiling. It wouldn’t cause immediate failure, but under load, it would make the belt slip and shudder violently.

After such operations, he was back in their cottage, feigning sleep, long before dawn.

The swordswoman woke to Griffith already stirring the embers of their fire.

"Market day," he said, his voice calm as ever. "We need flour."

There was no hint of the predator who had stalked the mill hours before. As they approached the bustling market square later that morning, a discordant sound cut through the usual clamor- a raw, animal scream of pure agony and disbelief, coming from the direction of the mill. It was Master Henrik’s voice, twisted beyond recognition. A crowd was already gathering, drawn by the terrible sound. Griffith’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the swordswoman’s shoulder, guiding her forward with deliberate calm.

"Stay close,"he murmured while his pale eyes scanned the scene. They pushed through the murmuring throng to the mill entrance. The air inside was thick with the smell of fresh blood, hot metal, and spilled grain. The massive grinding stone was still, but the scene beneath it was horrific.

Master Henrik knelt in a spreading pool of crimson slurry, a mixture of flour, water, and his son’s life. William lay half under the grinding stone.

The trap had worked.

The greased belt had slipped violently under the morning's load. The sudden jerk transmitted through the drive shaft had been amplified by the compromised beam Griffith had weakened. The brittle clay wedge, under immense, unexpected stress, had shattered instantly. The beam snapped downward, striking the old iron pin securing the drive shaft coupling. The pin didn't just shear; it exploded into shrapnel. One jagged piece, larger than a fist and sharp, tore upwards with the force of a cannonball. It struck William, who had been leaning over to clear a jammed chute near the base of the grinding mechanism. The shrapnel took him diagonally from hip to shoulder.

The rest of the pin's fragments peppered the walls like deadly hail.

William hadn't died instantly. The grinding stone, its drive suddenly unbalanced and uncontrolled by the shattered coupling, had lurched sideways off its track. Its immense weight came down partially on William’s lower legs, crushing them to pulp before finally shuddering to a stop. The boy had likely been conscious for agonizing seconds, trapped and mangled beyond recognition, before bleeding out onto the mill floor.

Henrik, arriving moments later to find his son in this state, had been driven instantly mad with grief and horror. He knelt now, covered in his son's blood, rocking back and forth, howling wordlessly at the ruined thing that had been William, his powerful baker's hands uselessly trying to gather the unmendable pieces.

The swordswoman gagged, turning her face into Griffith’s shoulder. She felt Griffith’s arm wrap around her, yet his gaze remained fixed on Henrik’s breakdown.

Griffith finally looked down at the swordswoman trembling against him.

"Terrible," he murmured, "A tragic accident. Come, let's get you away from this."

As he gently steered her back through the horrified crowd, away from the stench of blood and the baker’s broken wails, the young girl felt a chill deeper than any winter wind seep into her bones. The cottage felt different that night, as if the very air had grown heavier with unspoken truths. They went through their evening routine in careful normalcy, sharing their simple dinner, tending the fire, preparing for sleep. But the young dueler could feel the weight of the day's horror pressing against the walls like a living thing.

She waited until they had settled into their respective beds, until the silence stretched long enough that most would assume the conversation was over for the night. Only then, staring up at the dark ceiling, did she finally speak.

"How do you feel about William?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

Griffith was quiet for a long moment. Then he answered, "It's a sad thing. Any death of someone so young is tragic."

The words were perfectly appropriate, exactly what anyone would expect to hear. But there was something missing from them- some quality of genuine emotion that should have been there but wasn't. The swordswoman felt her stomach clench.

Silence settled between them again. Outside, she could hear the familiar sounds of the town settling into sleep.

"Did you..." She stopped, swallowed hard, and forced herself to continue. "Did you do anything to cause what happened today?"

The silence that followed was answer enough. She could hear Griffith breathing in the darkness, could feel him choosing his words. But no words came. The quiet went on until it became its own kind of confession.

Finally, she sighed, "Why did you do this again?"

Another tragedy, another reason they'd had to pack their few possessions in the dead of night and disappear before dawn. She'd been younger then, more willing to believe in coincidence, in the cruel randomness of the world. But patterns had a way of making themselves known, even to those who desperately wanted to remain blind to them.

"We had to move a town over the last time something like this happened," she continued, whispering as if the world could hear her admittance.

Griffith shifted in his bed, and she could imagine him turning to face her in the darkness even though she couldn't see him.

"He hit you. Henrik struck you with his full strength. A grown man's fist against a child's face. Did you think I would let that stand?"

Her heart dropped from the cage in her chest, not because of their content but because of how matter of fact he sounded.

"People have hurt me before," she whispered. "You don't usually kill them for it."

"Most people don't leave marks,"

he replied, "Most people don't hit you hard enough to nearly knock you unconscious in front of half the market."

She closed her eyes, though the darkness was already complete. "And William?"

"Was unfortunate collateral damage in his father's lesson. He learned something about the consequences of cruelty in his final moments."

Her breath was stolen. This was Griffith. The boy who made her soup when she was sick, who waited up when she was late, who had saved her life and given her a home.

"We'll have to leave again," she said finally, the practical reality of their situation came to her quickly.

"Probably," he agreed. "Though not immediately. Accidents don't typically require investigation, and Henrik is unlikely to be thinking clearly enough to ask difficult questions for some time."

His words made her feel ill. But underneath the revulsion was something else, something she hated herself for recognizing: relief that someone cared enough about her to exact such terrible vengeance, and fear of what would happen if she ever found herself on the wrong side of that same protective fury.

"I don't want you to kill for me anymore," she whispered into the darkness. "I can't promise that,"

Griffith replied honestly, "Do you remember my promise? About the king. About what he owes for your father's death."

She did remember. Whispered words spoken over a meager fire a year ago, when grief was still fresh and the world seemed made of nothing but loss and rage. A child's promise that had seemed both impossible and inevitable coming from his lips.

She nodded silently, the gesture lost in the darkness but somehow felt between them.

"I feel like I'm causing this," she whispered, the words torn from her throat like a confession. "Maybe if I didn't stay with you, if I just disappeared, more people would live. Maybe you'd-"

"Don't." The word cracked through the air. "Don't you dare finish that thought."

"I didn't mean-" she began, guilt flooding through her at the pain she'd heard.

"You're not responsible for what I choose to do," he said, his voice gentler now, "You never have been. Don't carry that burden."

She heard the soft whisper of blankets being pushed aside, felt rather than saw him sitting up in the darkness. Moving by instinct rather than sight, she crossed the small space between their beds and settled behind him. Her fingers found his hair and began the familiar ritual of braiding it for sleep. He allowed it, as he always did, tilting his head slightly to give her better access. His breathing slowly evened out under her gentle touch, the tension leaving his shoulders as her fingers worked through the pale strands with practiced ease.

And now…

Dawn light filtered through the canvas walls of the command tent, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. The swordswoman stood behind Griffith as she had so many mornings before.

Her hands were no longer those of a frightened girl but of a seasoned warrior, scarred from countless battles. The silver falcon helmet that marked Griffith as the White Hawk sat on the command table before them, its polished surface reflecting the morning light like a crown waiting to be claimed.

She could see their reflection in that gleaming metal- a woman grown, beautiful and deadly, tending to the man who was becoming a legend. But beneath her motions lay a current of unease that had grown stronger with each passing year, each mysterious setback that befell Griffith's enemies, each convenient accident that cleared his path to glory. The pattern had never stopped. It had simply grown more sophisticated, more far-reaching. Now entire battalions met unfortunate ends, Midland royalty suffered untimely assassinations, and supply lines failed at precisely the moments that best served Griffith's strategic needs.

"You're thinking too loudly," Griffith murmured,

Her fingers paused in their braiding. "Am I wrong to?"

Instead of answering directly, he turned in his chair, causing her hands to fall away from his half-finished braid. He suddenly stood and stepped into her space, close enough that she could see the flecks of deeper blue in his pale eyes.

"You've kissed me twice already," she said softly, remembering the confusion and conflict those moments had brought. The way her heart had raced not just from desire but from fear of what it meant to love someone capable of such calculated destruction.

"You allow it," he replied, reaching up to cup her face.

"Because I know what you are," she whispered.

His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, the same place where Henrik's fist had left its mark all those years ago.

"And you’re still braiding my hair. Still standing at my side while I plan to reshape everything."

She was still here, despite everything. Despite the bodies in their wake, despite the ice in his eyes when he calculated the cost of his ambitions. Despite knowing that loving him meant being complicit in everything he chose to become. He leaned to press his lips against hers as though he couldn’t help himself. Outside the tent, she could hear the camp beginning to stir, soldiers preparing for another day of war. She grunted as he moved his lips against hers, the cold silver of his gauntlet press at the back of her neck. She heard the slight groan passing from him as they both found themselves lost in eachother's lips and her knes buckled enough for him to wrap his arm around her waist, pressing her against him.

When they finally broke apart, Griffith's smiled and licked his lips as though he owned her taste.

"Finish my hair," he murmured, eyes tracing her lips, "We have a war to end."

And despite everything, despite the fear, despite the guilt, despite the growing certainty that she was bound to something far more dangerous than love, she returned to her place behind him and began to braid before their first major battle.

Chapter Text

"-What is it, Judeau?"

The army coiled with steel and leather, its scales the bright banners of Midland and the stark emblems of the Hawk. The wind snapped at her cloak with the promise of blood. Her place was near Griffith and between Generals Laban and Owen that served as golden cage bars. A sea of men, two oceans moving to meet underneath rolling clouds that whispered lightning to one another.

Judeau sighed, "It's Casca." His focus was lost in the churning mass of the cavalry. "She looks like she's folding in on herself."

The swordswoman’s eyes immediately began their own search, sweeping over the Midland knight ocean, trying to pick out that familiar, fierce silhouette. But there were too many men between them. She let out a soft breath, knowing the cause of that folding and retreat into the self. She reached into the small, worn pouch of her saddle. Her fingers found the tightly bound leather satchel within. She'd saved the willowbark for just this reason.

Because facing a moon cycle can be a relentless wench.

She held the pouch out to Judeau. "For her,"

He looked from the pouch to her face in confusion. “Why don't you give it to her?"

"Some remedies are soured by the hand that offers them," He wouldn’t understand the half of it, the blood-deep ache, but he would understand this. "From you, it's a kindness. From me, it's a debt she'd refuse to accept."

Judeau looked as though he understood by her words what she meant. He took the pouch with a nod, then he peeled his horse away from her side, melting back into the ranks. His concern for Casca felt familiar. Like it was the same sort of concern that Griffith gave her. She was left staring from where Judeau departed before giving Viola a gentle nudge with her heels.

it was enough to draw the eye of General Laban. “Aye”  he rumbled, stopping her from continuing further. “Watch out for the Blue Whales. They wear heavier armor. They aren’t swordsmen, they are larger, heavier. They wear thicker armor than the average Tudor.”

He finally turned to look at her with some dire knowing drowning in his eyes. The 'thank you' came out bittersweet with the resentment of not having that information in the first place. Regardless of her feelings, the first roar split the air like thunder, but it came from the throats of men. Rain had begun to fall in fat, cold drops that made steel slippery in gloved hands. The Dueler felt tightening in her chest as thousands of voices rose in a single chorded cry. It was a sound of men preparing to die or kill or both. She drew her blade as Viola surged forward with the line. Midland banners snapped wetly in the wind around her, and she found herself riding shoulder to shoulder with military royalty.

The Tudor army met as an ocean melding back together.

The swordswoman's blade carved through the chaos of it all while she ducked and weaved. A Tudor knight swung a mace at her head; she ducked low and opened his throat with an upward slash. Rain mixed with blood on her cheek. A cry of warning made her pivot. Judeau's horse had stumbled and a Tudor soldier took his advantage, raising a war hammer above him. The Swordswoman found wind screaming at her face as she had viola dart to cover him without a second thought, her blade intercepting the descending weapon with a shower of sparks. The hit jarred her arms, but she held, trembling before twisting her sword to catch the man across the ribs. He toppled backward into the mud just for Judeau to roll clear, rain eating at the mud plastered on him.

"Shit, even finding Casca will be a mission on it’s own, won't it?"  He grunted before moving for his mount.

"It would be unwise to try and find her in this battle." She chuckled.

The war continued, indifferent to small acts of loyalty or the rain that washed everything clean and dirty at once.

Then, lord Percival shouted something.

Battle sounds minced with the rain around her around her was the only thing that made it make sense to turn around to his voice.

"What?" She yelled.

Then he emerged from the storm's grey curtain. One of the Blue Whales, just as Laban had described. He was a fortress on horseback, encased in a suit of enameled cobalt so deep it was almost black, his helm fashioned into the snarling visage of some deep sea leviathan. Eyes beneath slits in the steel mask, found her. He ignored a Midland knight to his left, batting the man's sword aside in one swipe.

He lowered his heavy lance and charged. She knew she couldn't meet the charge head-on. Not with his power that was visible to the naked eye. At the last possible second, she spurred Viola into a diagonal veer. Her blade met the lance with a wrenching turn. The force of it nearly tore the sword from her grasp. The Blue Whale Knight pulled his massive steed around, his momentum barely checked. He dropped the now-useless lance and drew a mace nearly the size of her from his saddle. She parried the first swing of the spiked ball. Her arm numbed with a vibration she fought to keep still. He swung again, aiming for her mount. The head of the mace connected with Viola’s armored shoulder with a thud. It didn’t sound like the metal plate deflecting the hit, more like, flesh being struck. Her horse shrieked, a sound of pure agony and her legs buckled.

All she could make out was the spinning smear of mud and sky until she hit the ground enough for the to be air driven from her lungs. She could barely feel the sword beneath her fingers. Through the ringing in her ears, she could hear the heavy, deliberate footsteps of the iron fortress, turning to finish her off. Mud sucked at her armor, trying to claim her for the earth that smelled of blood and desperation. Above her, the Blue Whale Knight loomed with a swing already her way. She quickly coiled, narrowly missing the mace going for her head, sending a geyser of mud and shattered turf into the air, she rolled beneath the arc of the weapon's follow through. The mud that had been her trap was an anchor for his heavy armor, but a launching point for her.

She came up inside his guard, too close for him to bring the unwieldy mace to bear. Her fingers found their grip on the lip of a pauldron, a booted foot driving into his leg armor. He roared in fury, trying to reach a hand back to seize her, but he was too rigid to even grapple her. Her own sword was lost to her in the mud. It didn't matter. It was the wrong tool for this work. Her hand flew to the small of her back and drew a dagger. She clung to the knight's back as his panicked mount stamped and shifted. He was bucking at her, trying to slam her against another horse, another soldier, anything to scrape her off. She had only one chance. Ignoring the chaos, she found the seam where the bottom of his snarling helm met the steel gorget protecting his throat. There was a gap. She jammed the point of the dagger into it. It bit, catching on mail links beneath the plate. With a cry that was part effort, part rage, she threw the desperate weight of her entire body behind the pommel.

The resistance gave way. Roars melted into wet gargles while his massive body slipped in its fight, then slumped forward against the neck of his mountt.With a grunt, she put her shoulder into the dead man’s back and heaved. The knight toppled from his saddle, hitting the mud with a wet thud. She was left alone on the back of the rampaging warhorse, a borrowed mare that felt uncomfortable in its size. Wrenching its head around, she fought the beast for control, her will against its panic.

The moment she had the beast steadied, a more urgent moment seized her. Rain was so thick, it was growing hard to make out enemy from enemy.

“Viola!” She shouted.

Something was off. Griffith was holding his strength steady, sword screaching with another, but his eyes drifted, somehow knowing where she was between sheets of mother nature’s tears and dented armor. The sight of her on a strange horse, searching for Viola through battle was cause for more attention than the men being slaughtered in front of him.

Another Blue Whale Knight, a twin to the first, saw the hawk emblem on her scavenged steed and charged. She dove forward, dropping low against the warhorse’s neck. The momentum of his own attack carried his blade harmlessly over her head, leaving his back exposed for a single, fatal instant. In the heartbeat this bought her, her hand moved with thoughtless speed. The dagger was still in her hand, slick with the blood of its last victim. As his sword arm passed, she rose from her crouch and flipped the dagger in her grip, the hilt meeting her palm in a reverse hold. He was still turning, his own attack leaving him vulnerable. She drove the blade down, hard, into the vulnerable gap between helm and gorget. It plunged through mail and flesh. He collapsed forward, his horse snatching his lifeless body to the mist of rain.

Her attention had already turned to the cluster of Midland nobility still locked in the thick of the fighting. Lord Percival was holding his own, until he wasn’t. The Tudor blade found its mark before she could intervene. A thrust between the plates of his armor, sliding between ribs. Percival's cry was more surprise than pain.

Ah...It would be him.

She was beside him before he hit the ground, her stolen warhorse trampling the Tudor who had wounded him. Without a second thought, she tore the cloak from her shoulders, the fabric heavy with rain and battle. She pressed the cloth against the wound with enough force to make him gasp.

"Hold this." Her voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "Tight. Don't let go."

It was then, through the chaos, that she saw her. Viola, stumbling through the press of horses and men, her gait wrong, terribly wrong. Dark stains matted the mare's coat, and her movements carried the awful, broken rhythm of something dying on its feet.

"Fuck-” She couldn't leave Percival but she couldn't watch her horse suffer alone.

As if hearing her distress, the wounded mare began to move. Each step was agony made visible, but Viola pushed through the battlefield carnage, drawn by the sound of her rider's voice. Sweat ran rivers down her spine despite the cool rains. The storm had turned the battlefield into a slick, treacherous canvas painted with mud and worse things. She moved like she wasn’t sitting into herself with each kill being seen through a lens, as if she was watching someone else kill them. A Tudor knight fell, then another. Her breathing came harder and more shallow between strikes.

Lord Percival was still pressed against her stolen warhorse, her cloak a crimson bandage beneath his trembling hands. She didn’t personally care for him, nor the shock in his stare as she killed each Tudor in what appeared easier in her hands than his. But he couldn’t die.

Through the field came voices she recognized. Hawks with spirits cracking.

"-fell from the cliff-"

"-Guts went after-"

"-can't find Casca-"

The dueler glanced toward Griffith. Though he looked different below the surface. He worked his sword differently. Tension panged in his shoulders, a fraction of hesitation before each strike. Another Tudor pressed forward, and she met him with her dagger, the blade finding the soft spot beneath his arm. As he crumpled, she yelled, "Go! I'll keep the nobles breathing."

For a moment, the war he had in his head showed itself. Blue eyes moved from her to the cluster of Midland nobility.

"What are you waiting for?" Her voice shot out.

Griffith's gaze snapped to her, then swept across the remaining Blue Whale Knights still carving through their lines. "Search parties, now!"

He wheeled his horse toward a cluster of Hawks.

"Split into groups of three. Judeau, coordinate from the eastern ridge. Cover every ledge, every outcropping." But then he paused. His pale eyes found her again across the chaos. There came a look of recognition of what this moment cost him. "Pippin!"  The giant's head turned at the call.

"Stay with her. Guard formation."

She felt heat rise in her chest despite the cold rain. "At a time like this-”

"Yes, at a time like this."  His voice slammed, "You're the guardian of half the noble blood on this field. That makes you the highest-value target after me. Every enemy commander knows your position and what killing you would accomplish."

It would be foolish not to agree. The defense had left her shoulders as fast as it came.

“Yes sir.” She responded quietly, trying to hide her resignation beneath the sound of rain. He lingered and then went to search for the commanders missing in action.

She turned to put her attention towards Viola as Percival was hauled by Midland knights., each labored step a small victory over pain. The mare's breath came in harsh puffs of steam, but her dark eyes still held that fierce intelligence, that stubborn loyalty that had carried her across a hundred battlefields. The swordswoman's hand found the familiar warmth of her neck, fingers threading through the rain-soaked mane.

"Easy," The words were soft, meant only for the horse.

Behind her, Midland soldiers were already slipping in with a field stretcher as they were trying to dodge and weave through death itself. Lord Percival would live, if they could get him clear off the killing ground. His face was grey but determined, one hand still pressed to a piece of her bloodied cloak. A roar pierced and popped of being in the eye of the storm. Another Blue Whale Knight, larger than the others, was scything his way through Midland as through they were wheat. The knights protecting Percival’s escape fell while their blood mixed with the rain-drunk earth.

She stepped forward, placing herself between the giant and the wounded noble.

The knight's laughter came from somewhere deep in his chest. He lowered his sword point toward her.

"To hell with these lordlings." His helm turned, studying her through the slits. "You look mighty alike the one with the bounty on her head."

"Bounty?”

The Blue Whale Knight's laughter died in his throat as Pippin's massive axe found flesh between the plates of armor. The giant Hawk had moved with surprising silence for such a large man. his gauntleted hand closing around Pippin's sword hilt where it protruded from his ribs. With a grunt of effort and pain, he wrenched the blade free, dark blood spattering the muddy ground.

"Should've aimed higher," He growled, raising his own weapon.

The massive sword came down, not toward Pippin, but toward Lord Percival. The noble was still on the stretcher, too weak to move, his eyes wide with the sudden understanding that death was falling toward him.She moved without thought, her body responding faster than her mind could process the threat. Her hands found Percival’s shoulders and hauled him upright, pulling him clear of the stretcher just as the Blue Whale's blade came down.

"Get up!" She dragged the wounded lord to his feet, his weight heavy against her side. Blood seeped through her cloak where his wound had torn open with the sudden movement, but he was alive. The knight was already approaching, Pippin's axe lost in the mud, his own weapon dripping with splinters and rain. His helm had been dented by the impact, giving his voice a hollow, echoing quality.

"Nowhere to run now, bitch."

Pippin zipped to his fallen his hands finding a grip on the mace hidden and churned in the mud before swinging it toward the Blue Whale Knight's back. She saw the opportune moment to strike. While Pippin drew the knight's attention, she dove low, her dagger seeking not the armored man but his mount. The blade found the destrier's flank, sliding between muscle and sinew. The horse screamed, a sound that cut through the storm, and reared high on its hind legs.

The knight, caught off-balance by his mount's sudden agony, swung wildly to maintain himself over his saddle.

"Oh no, you don't." The Blue Whale growled.

His gauntleted fist caught her across the jaw as she tried to roll clear. All there were, was stars sparking in her eyes and the hint of copper that soon grew heavy over her tongue. She slid from the knight's thrashing horse, dangling by her nails onto consiousness. The world tilted sideways, rain and mud rushing up to meet her. Through the ringing in her ears, she could hear Pippin's roar of fury, the wet sound of steel meeting flesh. But the Blue Whale Knight was still moving, still fighting, his will to kill burning brighter than his wounds. She hit the ground hard, tasting mud and blood, her dagger lost somewhere in the churning mess of hooves and steel.

A rough hand seized her arm. Through the haze of pain exasperated by being pulled upright, she expected to see Pippin's concerned face or perhaps one of the Midland soldiers. Instead, Corkus's swam into focus, his familiar sneer was swapped with something she didn't think she would see in this moment, if ever. Concern.

"Why aren't you with the Hawks?" Blood ran warm from her nose, mixing with the rain on her lips.

He didn't answer, his grip firm as he steadied her against his shoulder. For a man who made no secret of his dislike for her, his support was surprisingly gentle, his weathered hands careful not to aggravate her injuries. Around them, the battle had shifted. Pippin's massive form grappled with the Blue Whale Knight, their weapons locked in a deadly embrace. Generals Owen and Laban had arrived with their retinues, their voices cutting through the storm as they coordinated the assault on the remaining enemy forces.

She tried to step forward, her eyes scanning the muddy ground for her dropped sword. The familiar weight of steel in her hand would steady her, give her purpose again. But Corkus's grip tightened, anchoring her in place.

"Pippin's got it handled,"

he muttered, his voice gruff but not unkind.

The words stung more than the blow to her jaw. She was being protected, coddled, kept at the margins while others fought. The realization sat bitter in her throat, worse than the taste of her own blood.

The cover Corkus led her toward was little more than an overturned supply cart, but it offered respite from the worst of the melee. Viola limped after them, her breathing labored but her loyalty unwavering. The mare positioned herself close by, as if sensing her rider's vulnerability.

The brief sanctuary shattered as three Tudor knights broke from the main battle, their eyes fixed not on the scattered nobles or the strategic positions, but directly on her. She watched them ignore Lord Percival entirely, stepping over fallen Midland soldiers without a glance. Their intent was singular, predatory.

Without hesitation, her hand found the short sword at Corkus's belt, the familiar weight settling into her grip as naturally as breathing. The first knight came in high; she met him with a rising parry that sent his blade wide, then opened his throat with the return stroke.

"They're hunting you specifically,"

Corkus observed, drawing his own weapon.

"Passed right by half the Midland command to get here."

The second knight pressed forward, and she danced aside, her movements still slightly unsteady from the blow to her head. "If the price was right, I'd sell you out myself," Corkus added with dark humor, "but you're a fellow Hawk."

"Bastard." The words came between sword strokes, her blade finding the gap in the knight's elbow joint.

They moved into a natural rhythm, standing back to back as the remaining knights circled. Corkus's fighting style was practical, economical-no wasted motion, no flourishes. Just the steady work of a veteran who'd survived too many battles to count.

A cry of pain cut through the clash of steel. Viola had been struck, a Tudor blade finding her already-wounded flank. The mare bolted in panic and agony, disappearing into the storm and chaos.

The circle tightened around them. Then Pippin arrived like a thunderclap, his massive sword sweeping through their attackers with the finality of an executioner's axe.

The rain drummed against their makeshift shelter as the last Tudor knight fell beneath Pippin's blade. Corkus lowered his weapon and let out a long, weary sigh that carried the weight of a dozen campaigns. He rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness that came after battle-fury faded.

"This feels like some forced peacemaking," he grumbled, wiping mud and worse things from his sword before sheathing it.

She turned to study his weathered face, noting the way his eyes avoided hers even as he spoke. There was something deliberate about his presence here, something that didn't sit right with his usual pattern of behavior. Corkus was many things, pragmatic, cynical, brutally honest about his own limitations- but he wasn't given to random acts of heroism.

"Griffith's orders?" she asked, the question carrying an edge of understanding.

The glare he fixed on her was sharp enough to cut steel. His jaw worked for a moment, as if chewing on words he wouldn't, or couldn't, speak. The silence was filled with distant sounds of the battle winding down and the steady patter of rain against armor.

"No."

He turned away, his gaze settling on the muddy battlefield where Pippin was methodically checking the fallen enemies for signs of life. The giant's thoroughness was both practical and grim, wounded enemies had a way of becoming problems later.

"Just keep your sword sharp," 

Corkus muttered, before quickly appearing to far to reply to. The battlefield had taken on that strange, hollow quiet that followed violence, not silence, but the absence of steel ringing against steel, of men screaming war cries and death rattles. Rain still fell, washing the mud clean of the worst stains, though it would take more than water to erase what had happened here.

She was already turning, her body coiled with the need to move, to search. Guts and Casca were somewhere in the storm, possibly broken on rocks below some cliff face. Her mind kept circling back to the mare's escape, realizing she wasn't anywhere to be seen

Pippin's massive hand settled on her shoulder, gentle but firm. He said nothing, Pippin rarely wasted words but pointed toward where Generals Laban and Owen were carefully maneuvering Lord Percival back onto his stretcher. The noble's face was grey with blood loss, but he was conscious, alive.

She followed Pippin's gesture, then looked back at him. There was a quiet understanding in the giant's expression that made her stomach tighten.

"What about them?" she asked, though she already knew what he would say. The Tudor knights had carved through Midland soldiers to reach her, had stepped over Lord Percival like he was furniture, had ignored every strategic target on the field. "They ignored the nobles completely. Walked right past half the command structure of Midland to get to me."

Someone wanted her specifically. Someone had put a price on her head high enough to make knights abandon tactical sense. Through the grey curtain of rain, Griffith had appeared between Midland soldiers and Hawks. When his eyes found her standing apart from the cluster of nobles, is brows furrowed.

"Why aren't you with Pippin and the nobles?" 

The question came before he was fully within conversational distance, his voice carrying the edge of someone whose orders had been ignored. But as he drew closer, his stride faltered. Sapphire eyes fixed on the dark trail running from her nose, the blood she'd forgotten in the aftermath of the fight.

"What happened?" 

He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the concern threading through his usually impassive features.

She wiped at her nose dissmisively with the back of her hand. "Apparently the nobles aren't worth a damn to the Tudor."

His eyes narrowed, that pale intensity focusing like light through a lens. The way he looked at her now was different from his usual calculating assessment- there was something personal in it, something that went beyond tactical concerns.

"What do you mean?"

The rain continued to fall around them, washing the battlefield clean while leaving the deeper stains untouched.

She met his gaze directly, her voice carrying the casual indifference she reserved for discussing the weather. "There's a bounty on my head. I guess I pissed off enough of the Tudor."

The scoff that followed was meant to dismiss the matter entirely, but Griffith's hand shot out, his fingers closing around her arm with an urgency that surprised them both. Blue eyes dug into everything that could be found by her mannerisms alone. It looked like there was anger, fear, an emotion close to panic. Then it was gone. He released her arm and reached into his armor, withdrawing a delicate square of silk.

The handkerchief bore Charlotte's embroidered rose, pristine white despite the blood and mud of the battlefield. The sight of it made her nauseated.

"Stop." The word came out sharper than she intended as he moved to dab at the blood on her face.

He paused, as the panic threatened to overtake his expression again," I could lose you in an instant," he said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Just like Guts and Casca-"

The words broke off, and for a heartbeat she saw him not as the untouchable White Hawk, but as a man watching his carefully constructed world fracture along invisible fault lines. The slight tremor in his hand holding the handkerchief while his jaw tightened against words he couldn't allow himself to speak.

Guilt settled in her chest like a stone.

"I'm not gone," she said, the words meant to reassure but carrying an undertone of defiance that only seemed to fuel whatever storm was building behind his eyes.

"You're not seeing the bigger picture." 

His voice cracked her name like a whip, 

"You, Guts, Casca-you're all essential. Every single one of you have to survive, for everything we've struggled toward to mean anything at all."

"Then why do I even carry a sword for myself?" His face darkened, and she could see another outburst building. But before the words could escape him, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Griffith!" Rickert's appeared shouting through breaths after running across the field "We found tracks leading down the eastern slope. Gaston thinks he spotted movement near the river."

The tremor in his hand stilled, his breathing evened, and when he turned toward Rickert, he appeared seated in a placid, yet focused resolve.

"Show me," he said simply, the silk handkerchief disappearing back into his doublet.

Griffith watched Rickert retreat through the rain before turning back to her, the storm of emotion from moments before carefully contained but not entirely erased. When he moved toward her again, it was with the measured grace that marked all his actions, but there was something softer in his approach now.

"Let me," he said quietly, raising the silk handkerchief once more.

This time she didn't protest. His touch was gentle as he dabbed away the blood that had dried on her upper lip. The embroidered rose brushed against her skin, Charlotte's mark leaving its own invisible claim, but she quickly found she cared less about the provenance of the cloth than the careful attention with which he wielded it.

When he finished, he pressed the handkerchief into her palm, his fingers lingering against hers for a moment longer than necessary. 

"Keep it," he said simply.

"You need to return to Laban as soon as possible," he continued, but his voice had lost its earlier edge. Instead, there was something almost vulnerable in the way he looked at her, a crack in his usual armor of certainty.

 "Please."

It was the 'please' that undid her. Against every instinct that told her to argue, to fight, to prove her worth through action, she found herself nodding. "Alright.”

The makeshift camp felt like a cage of good intentions. She perched on a weathered stump, her body angled to keep both the nobles and the battlefield in her line of sight. Laban and Owen had returned after helping Percival to medical cot and Pippin stood seemingly like he waws watching the aftermath in battle when really he was watching her. Every few moments her gaze swept the distance, searching for a familiar silhouette among the scattered debris of war. Viola was out there somewhere, wounded, possibly dying alone in the mud.

"Pippin," she said without turning, "Think you could watch the nobles? I need to find Viola."

The giant turn to give her a stare that heavily read, 'no'.

"She's not too far."

General Laban's voice carried the dry disapproval of a man who had seen too many soldiers die for foolish reasons. 

"You seem eager to put your life on the line for a mare."

She didn't turn to face him, her eyes still scanning the battlefield. "Not just any mare."

Her fingers found the swollen flesh of her cheek, pressing gently against the tender bruise. The Blue Whale Knight's punch had done its work well, her left eye was already beginning to swell shut, narrowing the world into a tunnel she could barely see through. When she finally rose from the stump, Laban fell into step beside her. His presence was solid, reassuring, the unspoken agreement of one veteran watching another's back.

"Do the Tudor often put out bounties?" she asked as they picked their way through the aftermath, stepping carefully around the fallen.

"Sometimes," Laban replied, his weathered face thoughtful. 

"Usually for the harder kills. The ones that require more than luck to bring down."

"What about for someone like me?" 

Laban's honesty was as blunt as his sword work. "No- Not even with that kind of focus. It would do you well to stay close by."

Her eyes narrow while she pondered. For some reason, Laban's answers felt too short.

Before she could process the implications fully, a soft whinny sounded, weak but unmistakably familiar. Her head snapped toward the source, and there, perhaps fifty yards away, Viola stood swaying on trembling legs.

She ran without thinking, her boots slipping on the rain-slick ground. The mare's coat was dark with more than rain, and each labored breath sent visible puffs of steam into the cold air. As she drew closer, Viola tried to step forward, but the movement was wrong, broken somehow.

"Easy, girl. Easy." Her hands moved over the familiar warmth of the horse's neck, feeling for the extent of the damage. Multiple wounds, some deep enough to matter. Viola's dark eyes looked at her with that ancient trust that horses gave freely and humans rarely deserved.

Behind her, Laban stood at a respectful distance. His face kept lukewarm, but she could feel his assessment. He said nothing, allowing her the dignity of reaching her own conclusions. Taking Viola's reins gently in her hands, she began the slow walk back toward the nobles. Each step was a negotiation between hope and reality, between what she wanted and what she knew. The mare followed.

The walk back felt like a funeral procession in slow motion. Viola's hooves made soft, uneven sounds against the muddy ground, each step a small victory that cost more than it should. Laban walked beside them, like a promise.

Judeau's voice carried across the field before she saw him, relief threading through his words like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

"They're found!"

She gave Laban a grateful nod- before making her way toward the approaching group. Guts lay still on a makeshift stretcher, his massive frame somehow diminished by unconsciousness, while Casca paced beside him with a rare worry she didn't fully know she had. The smile that touched her lips was genuine, the first real warmth she'd felt since the battle began.

Later, as night settled over the camp like a heavy cloak, she sat beside Viola outside her tent. The mare lay on a bed of fresh hay, water within reach, her breathing shallow but steady. The swordswoman's brush moved in long, gentle strokes through the familiar coat, each pass a meditation on loyalty and time.

"You're exhausted," she murmured.

Footsteps approached through the darkness. She looked up to find Griffith emerging from the shadows, his pale hair catching the distant firelight.

"Your eye is swollen shut," he observed, settling into a crouch beside her.

"Where have you been?" she asked, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze kept drifting toward the camp's perimeter. "You've been missing for hours."

"Getting to the bottom of the bounty issue," he replied, "Checking if other soldiers were targeted the same way.”

She paused in her brushing, watching him settle beside them. Without a word, Griffith reached into a small leather pouch at his belt and withdrew a clay vial. The salve inside caught the dim firelight as he uncorked it, releasing the sharp, clean scent of herbs and healing. He applied the mixture to Viola's deepest wound, his touch careful. The mare's ears flicked back, then forward again, some animal instinct recognizing kindness even through pain. His gentle tending felt like it was being applied to her, salving the beating creature behind her chest, even if it wasn't meant for her. When he finished, Griffith's hand moved to stroke Viola's neck, his fingers threading through the dark mane. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"You still owe me a race," he said,"It would be a shame to use a different horse when the time comes."

His words spoke of futures that stretched beyond politics They promised that there would be time for races, for moments of joy stolen between battles. She found herself smiling despite everything- the swollen eye, the aching body, death that hung over them all like storm clouds.

"She'll be ready," she said quietly, and meant it.

His pale eyes moved from the horse to her face, lingering on the darkened bruise that had painted half her vision in shades of purple and black. There was something almost clinical in the way he studied the damage, but beneath that assessment lay something warmer, more personal.

"Do you need that eye tended to?" he asked, his voice quiet in the night air.

She nodded, the simple motion causing a dull throb to pulse through her skull. Speaking felt unnecessary; they both knew the extent of the damage, both understood what needed to be done. Griffith rose and extended his hand toward her, palm up in an invitation. When she placed her fingers in his, she felt the calluses that spoke of years with a sword.

He drew her to her feet with gentle pressure, steady and sure. For a moment they stood close together in the firelight, the sounds of the camp settling around them. His thumb brushed across her knuckles once, a gesture so brief it might have been imagined, before he released her hand and gestured toward his tent.

"Come."

Chapter Text

Griffith walked in comfortable silence beside the swordswoman to the tent, the soft crackle of distant campfires marking their path through the temporary city of canvas and steel. The question came naturally, practical in the way all of Griffith's considerations were.

"Do you want to bathe first?"

She nodded, already mentally cataloguing what clean clothes she had left in her pack. The mud and blood of the day clung to her like a second skin, and the prospect of washing it away felt almost sacred.

"I'll have water boiled for you when you return," he said.

She gathered her things, a simple tunic, clean smallclothes, her linen towel, and made her way toward the designated bathing area. The sound reached her before she saw them: laughter, bright and genuine, cutting through the night. The comfort women had claimed a section of the stream for themselves, creating a pocket of warmth and voices in the cold evening. She could see the guards Griffith had assigned at respectful distances from the women, warding away the interests of knights under Percivals Guardianship. The swordswoman had resigned herself to silence until she saw Elara raising a wet hand in greeting out of the corner of her eye.

"Look who survived another day!" she called out, her smile visible even in the dim light under the moon and stars.

The swordswoman returned the wave with a small gesture of her own, but she held herself back in the darkness. Their joy was infectious but belonged to them; she was content to just let it wash over her and the universe that decided to humor her that evening. Now she was the one with the swollen cheek adnd a black eye.  When she returned to his tent, she was greeted with a scene unexpectedly comfortable, warm even. Griffith sat on his chair parallel to the cot, his silver hair still damp and darkened to pewter, a towel draped across his shoulders... and, well... his shirt was unbuttoned. Maybe he wanted to cool down, but the reason didn't disband the fact that her eyes settled on the sharp edges of muscle peaking through the gap of his shirt. Cool, distilled water waited for her in a clay pot on the table. Even the light seemed different.

"Was your bath alright?" he asked, looking up from where he'd been testing the temperature of the water with his fingertips.

"It was fine," she replied, settling her pack beside the tent's entrance. "I saw Elara and the others. They seemed content with the guards watching over them."

A genuine smile touched his lips, the kind that reached his eyes and reminded her why men followed him into the hell of war.

"I thought giving them Hawks would work better. These are the same men who've bathed alongside Casca for years. They understand respect. Their loyalty runs to me, not to Percival's sense of entitlement." He gestured to the cot in front of him. "Sit. Let me see that eye properly.”

She settled onto fresh linen and firm cushioning and it quickly reminded her of how exhausted she really felt after gathering kills earlier. When he leaned forward with the damp cloth, she flinched instinctively- her body trying to hide her injuries away from his touch even after he's historically tended to her before. The press of the water was colder than she had imagined, it felt numbing.

"This isn't the first time you've done this," she said with a soft scoff, trying to inject some lightness into the moment. His hand stilled before continuing its gentle work. "Probably won't be the last, but I'm alright with that."

His brows drew together in concentration, as though he was trying so hard to make the tending as painless as possible. The tightness in her chest arrived again, a conflict she'd been avoiding for months. This was her commander, a ruthless planner and victor. But here, in the lamplight, tending to her bruises with so much care, he was dressed as something else, like the countless of times he'd been before around her. The cloth was cold against her swollen skin, and she couldn't bring herself to look away from him, even as the contradiction of it all threatened to unravel something fundamental in her understanding of the world.

"I must look pitiful, half-blind and beaten up like some tavern brawler." She said trying to take a breath of something less intense in its intimacy than this. The cloth paused while still pressed gently against her cheek, and he shook his head.

"You look fearless."

Those words surprised her.

"You stood between armed knights and wounded nobles today. You fought three men at once without hesitation. You're here worrying about your horse instead of your own injuries. That's not pitiful. That's what courage looks like after it's been tested."  And when sapphire met her eyes, she could only withstand looking at his gaze before she stared at her calloused hands and the years of battles she could easily read on them. The cloth resumed its gentle work, dabbing at the purpling scab at her cheek.  "The swelling will go down," he added quietly.

She found herself caught between wanting to turn away from his intensity and being unable to break the connection that seemed to anchor them both in a small pocket of warmth against the cold night. His lips felt like they were inviting her in every word he spoke.

She wanted to kiss him. at least she was honest with herself about that.

His hand stilled against her cheek, the damp cloth forgotten between his fingers. There was a generousity in his stillness; he let her look into what remained soft and inviting. Silence was heavy with possibility and the weight of choices that could change everything. Outside the tent, the camp went about its business, but here in this small circle of light distance between them had become a living thing, charged and fragile. She found herself leaning forward, drawn by something stronger than logic or caution. He pulled the cloth away from her cheek and instead of retreating, he moved closer, closing the gap by half before stopping. He would meet her halfway, but the final choice had to be hers this time. She fumbled with herself before bridging the remaining distance and pressed her lips to his.

Fingers slip to the uninjured side of her face, his thumb tracing a gentle path along her jawline, to which spoke of awareness-of her swollen cheek, bruises that painted half her face. When they finally parted, it was by only a hair. he leaned in again, under the mercy of the impossible softness of his mouth. This time the kiss deepened slightly and their lips dance against eachother. When they parted, the reality of what had just happened crashed over her like cold water. Crickets sang tunes and here she was, spine stiff over his cot, staring at some point past his shoulder, mind racing through implications outside of this pocket of time.

Gentle circles were drawn by the pad of his thumb over her cheek,

"Is everything alright?"  he asked softly.

"Yes," she said quickly, then shook her head. "No- I-" She forced herself to meet his eyes. "This complicates everything."

Her words stood between them like an accusation and a plea rolled into one. Political marriages, military deals, the careful web of alliances he'd spent years constructing all of it suddenly felt fragile.

He was quiet for a moment, his hand still resting against her face. When he spoke, there was something almost amused in his voice, though his expression remained serious.

"How much more complicated can our relationship honestly get?" T he question carried weight beyond its simple words, acknowledging the tangled mess of loyalty, duty, and desire that had been building between them for months.

"What?" The word escaped her like a breath, confusion and something else flickering across her features. "We've kissed each other before,"  he said simply, his forehead coming to rest against hers. Their breath mingled in the small space between them.

"How complicated could things get?"

She blinked, trying to process what he was asking her, what he was offering and taking away all at once.

"I would feel things that shouldn't be felt," she said finally, admission dragged from somewhere deep inside her chest.

"Feel what?"

She couldn't give voice to the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her if she acknowledged them fully. After a moment, he answered for her.

"Whatever you feel is perfectly valid," he said quietly, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns against her cheek.

"I don't fault you for it. Even I cannot truly help myself against it."

They stared into one another before he leaned in again. The kiss carried a heat that the previous ones had only hinted at. She found herself responding without thought, her hands finding the damp fabric of his shirt. When he pulled back, he searched for parts of her she couldn't even see herself,

"Its just... you take so much pain for the world,"

She stilled, not trusting her voice, and his lips found hers again, deeper this time, his hand slid to cradle the back of her head. Against her lips, he whispered,

"it's okay to feel something better than being punched or defending people you despise."

Warmth from his lips pressed against her jaw and the goosebumps colored her skin, enough to make her shiver. It was as if he were trying to replace every harsh blow she'd endured with something softer. His kisses felt like they were cracking the hard shell she covered herself with to taste the rich flesh of her underneath. Will was the sand slipping between her fingers.

"You deserve to feel more than that, don't you?"

A slow, deep heat bloomed low in her belly, a feeling so long suppressed she had almost forgotten its existence. It felt like a dizzying contrast to the cold steel and sharp pain that defined her world. Fighting it felt like fighting against the pull of a warm tide after swimming in a frozen sea for too long.

Her head tilted back of its own accord for him. "Griffith," she breathed.

Lips lingered, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point in her neck before his questing mouth began to move lower. He sought the delicate hollow of her collarbone, tracing a path downward with a reverence that made her skin burn. She swallowed hard against the rising tide of pleasure, a futile attempt to regain some semblance of composure. A low groan escaped from her throat, unbidden and honest, a sound of pure surrender to the solace he offered. His lips were a slow, deliberate fire against her skin, a stark contrast to the cold rain that still clung to the air outside the tent. His hands, which had been so careful and clinical moments before, now moved with a new purpose. One hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her damp hair to cup her head, tilting it to his will. The other hand drifted from her jaw down to the rough-spun fabric of her tunic, his fingertips tracing the line of the laces.

"You're so tired, I can almost taste it."

He murmured, before moving to trace at the laces of her tunic. She felt the pull of the laces loosening, one by one. Each pluck was a question, and her stillness was the answer he sought. The cool night air hit her skin as the fabric parted, but it was immediately replaced by the warmth of his palm as he laid it flat against the space just above her heart. Ad it hammered against his hand, a wild, frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs.

"You’ve earned the right to feel it without the shadow of death hanging over you."

when he shifted to straddle over her, she was quickly finding herself lot. His touch was a cartographer's, exploring her skin with a reverence that was utterly at odds with the man who commanded armies. His calloused fingertips, hardened by the hilt of his sabre, traced the curve of her shoulder, then drifted lower, over the lean muscle of her stomach. She sucked in a sharp breath as he pulled her tunic off. His eyes painted over her pebbling nipples as she found herself breathing harder as if it would bring more of his touch. He splayed his fingers through hers as he sifted to straddle her over the cot.

She shivered while he stretched her arm and gently squeezed at her bicep she didn't realize was aching.

"It's alright,"

A spell hidden in reassurance, meant to soothe, but it only fanned the flames. He gently guided her to roll onto her stomach, the rough blanket of the cot a stark texture against her bare front. The cool air raised goosebumps across her back, but they were instantly chased away by the heat of his palms settling on her shoulders. He began to knead the tight, aching muscles there, his thumbs finding the knots of tension left by the weight of her sword and the stress of the fight. It was a practiced, knowing touch. He knew precisely where the pain resided, where the armor straps dug, where the body stored its fear. But this was different from his previous actions. His touch lingered. It was no longer just clinical; it was exploratory.

"You carry a kingdom's worth of burdens in your shoulders,"

he whispered, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. His hands slid down her back, thumbs pressing along either side of her spine, sending shivers of a new kind of relief through her. It wasn't just the relief of pain, but the relief of being touched, of being tended to with such singular focus. His straddling weight shifted, settling more firmly over her, pressing her into the mattress. She could feel the hard lines of his thighs bracketing hers, a subtle, undeniable pressure that reminded her of his complete control of the situation. His open shirt gaped, and she imagined the smooth, hard plane of his chest just inches above her back. The image was so vivid it made the pit of her stomach clench. Palms moved lower, tracing the dip of her waist before his palms flattened against the small of her back. The motion rocked her hips slightly, a gentle, rhythmic movement that was becoming dangerously addictive. A sound, a half-moan, half-sigh, vibrated in her throat, and she pressed her face into the scratchy wool of the blanket to muffle it. She felt his smile against her hair.

"So why not stop that?"

He was giving her permission. Permission to feel something other than the gritty reality of their lives. His fingers spread wide, gliding over her ribs, his thumbs just grazing the underside of her breasts with each pass. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it sent jolts of lightning straight to her core. She was pliant under his hands, her body arching instinctively into his touch, seeking more of it. He moved lower still, his hands finding the curve of her hips, then the firm muscle of her glutes. He squeezed gently, kneading the flesh with a strength that was both therapeutic and shockingly intimate. The heat that had been blooming in her belly now rushed down between the apex of her thighs. Her smallclothes, the simple linen shorts she’d put on after her bath, suddenly felt oppressively tight. A damp, undeniable heat was spreading through the fabric.. He lowered himself, his chest pressing against her back, his own arousal a hard, insistent pressure against her. He was no longer just massaging her. He was claiming every inch of her with his touch, branding her with this impossible heat. He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive nape of her neck again, and whispered,

"Better?"

His hand slid from her hip, down the back of her thigh, his calloused fingertips a delicious friction against her skin. He worked his way down to her calf, then back up, his path growing bolder, his fingers tracing the inner curve of her thigh. She gasped, her hips bucking as his fingers brushed against the damp fabric of her shorts. He had to have felt it. He had to know.

But he didn't say a word. Just stared down at her, eyes locked on the damp spot blooming through her shorts, the evidence of her arousal plain and humiliating in the dim light. His face remained stoic, but there,a faint pink tinged his cheeks, creeping up from his neck like he'd been caught off guard by his own hunger. She blinked, her mind snagging on it.

He's blushing?

The thought twisted something inside her, a mix of surprise and raw want, making her thighs clench involuntarily. He, the untouchable commander, flushed because of her.

Before she could process it, he descended silently, his silver hair brushing her inner thighs as he pressed his nose right against the soaked cloth of her shorts. The sudden pressure and heat of his breath seeping through, made her squeak in shock, her body jerking up on instinct. Embarrassment flared through her- this was too much, too intimate, her most private ache laid bare under his gaze. She tried to rise, to twist away and hide, but she felt his grip holding her in place on her stomach. He pinned them down behind her back, holding her in place with her arms folded agaisnt her back. What the hell was he doing? Confusion fogged her thoughts, her pulse hammering wild in her ears. Then she felt it- a damp, insistent pressure at her shorts, warm and probing. She craned her neck, glancing back, and the sight was a gut punch... Griffith, on his knees between her legs, his tongue lapping at her folds through the thin fabric. Licking her like he was starving, eyes half hidden under lids but utterly lost and invested all at once. Heat flooded below her belly, her pussy clenching at the reality of it. She twisted against his hold, hips bucking half in protest, half in desperate need, but he only pressed closer, his grip on her wrists tightening, his tongue working harder, more deliberate.

"Griffith," she gasped, his name tumbling out from her lips haphazardly. He ignored her, didn't even look up, just kept going. His tongue searched greedily around the clinging, damp fabric, pressing flat against the outline of her swollen lips, then kneading over her clit in slow, firm strokes. The barrier muted the sensation just enough to drive her insane. It was teasing, not quite enough, making her thighs tremble and her breath falter into ragged gasps. She stilled despite herself, surrendering to a pleasure building in faint, frustrating waves that had her grinding back against his mouth without thinking.

It felt good, wrong and perfect.

Then his fingers, hooked into the waistband of her shorts, a swift, deliberate tug that peeled the fabric away from her most vulnerable curve. A gasp escaped her, stolen by the sudden rush of cool air against her bare sex, slick and shimmering with anticipation. But that chill was a fleeting ghost compared to the white-hot jolt that arced through her as his tongue plunged into her. A cry ripped from her throat, her body arching, coiling, a wild thing writhing against the unforgiving embrace of the wool blanket. Its rough embrace abraded her pebbled nipples, her taut belly, each scratch amplifying the escalating pleasure. His tongue slipped into the valley between her folds, lapping at her entrance, then circling around her pulsing clit.

"Griffith!" The name was a whip-crack, sharp with a feigned indignation that belied the breathless tremor in her voice. The truth was, she was glued to the spot, pinned by the exquisite torment of his mouth, which now devoured her, sucking her clit between his lips with an obscene, wet hunger that filled the small tent.

He remained a statue of stoicism, save for the tell-tale blush that crept higher on his cheekbones. How could he reduce someone to this quivering, desperate creature? The searing heat, the slick, intoxicating slide of his tongue parting her, tasting every secret, every drop of her wetness, sent a relentless throb through her core. Her cunt clenched, begging for more, always more. She knew with a mortifying certainty, that she was leaving a trail of her essence on his chin, that it was probably dripping from his chin. The humiliation only sharpened the ache, her body a traitor, betraying her while it ground itself into his mouth. Her clit throbbed like a second heartbeat, pulsating wildly under the relentless assault of his mouth, each throb sending a sharp sting of pleasure shooting through her core. She could feel it swelling, hypersensitive, every nerve ending screaming as the warmth of his mouth enveloped her again, hot and suffocating in the best way. Then came the flat of his tongue, rolling slow and deliberate against the very tip of her clit, pressing just hard enough to make her vision blur at the edges. It was too much, that direct friction, like fire licking at her most sensitive spot, building an ache she didn't know the end of.

She twisted in his grasp, her hips jerking wildly as her lower half burned with overstimulation, every muscle in her thighs quivering, begging for mercy even as she craved more. But he didn't let up; his hands pressed her down tighter, pinning her wrists harder against the small of her back, forcing her ass up higher, her body splayed open for him. The restraint only amplified it all- the helplessness, the exposure, her cunt clenching desperately around nothing, slick leaking down her thighs. She glanced back over her shoulder, breath hitching, and there were his eyes, locked on hers over the curve of her ass, intense and unblinking under the hitched up fabric of her shorts. It pierced her, making her feel like he was claiming not just her body but every hidden part of her soul.

Calloused fingers curled against her labia, parting her slick folds before slipping inside. Two at once stretched her open with a wet slide that made her groan deep into the wool blanket. His tongue slipped out to flick at her clit in rapid, teasing strokes, syncing with the thrust of his fingers, curling them just to hit that spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. She groaned louder, muffled against the rough fabric, her cunt squeezing down hard around his fingers, convulsing in waves as the orgasm ripped through her. It shattered her thoughts, blanking her mind to everything but the hot, pulsing release. Her walls fluttering wildly, gushing slick over his hand, her whole body coiling and uncoiling in ecstasy that left her trembling, lost in the haze.

When it finally ebbed, he pulled back slowly, a glistening bridge of her slick stretching between his lower lip and her still-throbbing cunt, obscene and intimate. He licked it away with a swipe of his tongue, then reached for the handkerchief on the stand next to the cot, soemthing she was planning to honestly throw out.

Charlotte's.

The one Charlotte gave him.

Embroidered for him, all delicate threads and noble intent. He wiped his chin with it, cleaning off the remnants of the dueler's arousal, and the thought hit her like a twisted thrill.

Charlotte would be humiliated to her core if she saw this. Her precious gift, soiled by the swordswoman's filthy release. A fuck-you to all her simpering affections. It made the swordswoman feel wicked, even as embarrassment burned in her chest. He didn't say a word, just pulled away silently, like he'd snapped out of some trance, his stoic mask slipping back into place as he rose, cheeks still faintly pink. She lay there panting, chest heaving against the cot, slick dripping slow and steady from her spent cunt to pool on the ground beneath her.

She finally hauled herself up from the cot, muscles aching in ways that had nothing to do with the day's battles and everything to do with the raw surrender she'd just given. The wool blanket scratched against her bare skin as she shifted, her tunic still discarded in a heap. But she was focused on griffith already settling into the bedroll on the ground, his back turned to her, the line of his shoulders rigid under the faint lamplight like a wall she'd never breach. No words, no glance back. Silence, as if what had passed between them was already being buried under of the layers of clothing that normality could afford them. She could only stare, her skin still humming from his touch.

Silently, she gathered her tunic, pulling it over her head with hands that tremble, then curled into her own bed, knees drawn up like a shield. What the hell had they just done? He'd lapped at her like a man possessed, fingered her until she shattered, his tongue and hands pulling pleasures from her body she'd long forgotten how to chase... and now? Nothing. Mute as the grave, lying there with his back to her, as if the taste of her on his lips hadn't just changed everything. Or maybe it hadn't for him. The thought twisted into a labrynth of possibilites and anxiety in her mind, leaving her staring at the tent's shadowed ceiling, sleep a distant enemy.

Weeks had passed, each one stretching longer and heavier than the last like they were chains dragging at her ankles. The morning after the sexual encounter, she'd woken to an empty tent, the bedroll neatly rolled away, Griffith already out commanding the Hawks, his voice carrying faintly from the camp's heart as if the night before had been a fever dream. She'd thought it was just for that day, a respectful avoidance, giving her space or himself time to process. But then came the next dawn, and the next, his presence slipping away before she could even stir from exhaustion's grip. Battles melded into one another only for him to be gone when she dragged herself back to the tent for rest, buried in meetings.

Weeks of this silence, this ghosting through shared spaces without a true word exchanged, and it wore on her as rust eating at steel. She was scared. Bone-deep terrified- that he regretted it, that the flush on his cheeks had been shame instead of desire and now he was molding their history back into something safe, something that didn't threaten his grand designs. If only she hadn't been so damn exhausted, her body heavy from the fights and the nights of fractured sleep, she might have woken early enough to catch him, to force the conversation before he vanished into his role. But she hadn't.

Whispers about Doldrey had come upon the camp. And she was sitting cross-legged on a stump outside the tent, the whetstone scraping against her sword's edge, her metal singing a low, grating whine that mirrored the churn in her thoughts. The blade gleamed under the afternoon sun, but her strokes were too frantic, too distracted, as if she could grind away the memories along with the nicks. It was for once that she could sit in her true self instead of hiding herself and acting as though nothing happened before. It was hard to keep going, especially under Judeau's watch. For once, she hated how insightful and studious he could be because she had to constantly filter her words in an exhausting cycle just so he wouldn't catch on that she was royally eaten the fuck out by their commander.

A shadow fell over her work, and she looked up, her hand instinctively tightening on the hilt.It was Laban. Even after months of working under her command within the new structure, he still moved with the quiet watchfulness of a man who missed nothing. He had a couple of wooden practice swords tucked under his arm.

"You'll wear a groove in that blade if you're not careful," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble.

"It needs to be sharp," she bit back.

He didn't take offense. Instead, he simply sat on the grass near the stump, making no move to crowd her. The silence stretched for a moment, only the scrape of her whetstone sifted between them. "Feel like a spar?" he asked, finally.

She stopped her sharpening, looking at him properly. She quirked a brow, a flicker of her old mockery surfacing.

"And get half the beating my father used to give you? I think I'll pass."

A slow smile cracked Laban's stern features. He shrugged, "A difference doesn't make it any lesser."

The dueler stared at him, the whetstone still in her hand. A sigh of pure exasperation at herself, at Griffith, at the whole damned world. The frantic energy inside her needed a release. A clean one. She slammed the whetstone down onto the stump, cracking loudly in the quiet afternoon. Pushing herself to her feet, she looked Laban in the eye.

"Fine," she said, her voice low and steady now. She kicked one of the practice swords toward him with the toe of her boot. "But don't cry to Owen when you can't lift a wine goblet tomorrow.”

Laban caught the practice sword deftly. " Haven't touched a drop of wine since we left the capital, A clear head is worth more than a warm belly on the march." They began to pace, circling each other in the flattened grass, the wooden swords held loosely at their sides. It was a familiar dance, the precursor to a duel.

"So," she said, her eyes tracking his every subtle shift of weight. "Were you always such a hardass, or is that a new development for my benefit?"

"No, your father was worse."

He parried her verbal jab with a truth that made her falter for a step.

"But I expected it. The world got harder, so he got harder with it. That's how men like him survived."

A heavy sigh escaped her, the frustration from the last few weeks bleeding out with it. Her gaze drifted away from Laban, across the bustling camp ground where men sparred, mended armor, and lived their temporary lives. The sight of Griffith's command tent, pristine and white in the distance, made her jaw tighten. She forced her attention back to the man in front of her.

"What was he like... to you?" she asked, her voice softer now, stripped of its sarcasm.

Laban considered the question as he circled.

"An inspiration," he said finally.

"The kind of man you couldn't help but know, even if you tried not to. He had a way about him. Carried himself like a man who knew his own worth, but others’ too." He let out a short, humorless scoff and shook his head with the memory.

"Gods, the women... Used to follow him around like lost lambs. Always swooning." Her brow quirked, "Is that how I came along, then? A dalliance with a swooning maid he was too proud to tell me about?"

Laban's wry smile vanished. He grew quiet, his eyes thoughtful, studying her face as if seeing something new in it. The air, which had been light with the prospect of a friendly bout, suddenly grew heavy with history. "I think you have it backwards."

She froze, the wooden sword feeling heavy and useless in her hand. Her own bitter jab had struck something solid, something she hadn't known was there. "What do you mean, backwards?"

He took a step closer, not as a combatant, but as a confidant. "To most of us, your father seemed like a man who chose his sword rather than anything else. He treated them all with a kind of polite distance."

Laban paused, his gaze drifting for a moment as if summoning a ghost.

"But if I had to guess, it would have been someone quiet. Someone unexpected. A maid, maybe. And if it was... I don't think he was the one who charmed her into his bed. I think he was the one who was charmed.”

She stared at him, the world narrowing to the space between them. The thought was a foreign seed planted in the barren ground of her understanding. Her father, a man she’d painted in her mind as a monolith of strength and stoicism, capable of passion but perhaps not of being captured by it, was suddenly recast as a man ensnared. By her mother. A maid.

Her mouth was dry. She knew, with the certainty of a soldier sensing an ambush, that Laban had more to say. She could see it in the depths of his steady eyes. But the moment hung, fragile and heavy, and then it shattered.

Laban shifted his weight, the movement pulling her from her reverie. The confidant vanished, and the veteran soldier took his place. A wry grin touched his lips again, this time a direct challenge.

"Thinking too much will get you killed," He taunted. And unfortunately he was correct "Or are you going to let an old man have the first strike?"

The sharp change was jarring, but it was also a lifeline. This, she understood. The clash of steel, the dance of combat. It was simpler than the tangled mess of the past.. Heads began to turn. First a few Midland soldiers, then some of the original Hawks, their curiosity piqued. Soon, a loose circle had formed, a mix of banners and loyalties, all united by spectatordom.

A familiar, easy-going voice cut through the murmuring crowd.  "I turn my back for one second," Judeau called out, a wide grin on his face as he pushed his way to the front.

"And you're already trying to rough up the regimental commander. Some things never change." The sight of him, so completely at ease, was grounding. A genuine smile tugged at her lips,

"Just showing him how we Hawks settle disagreements, Judeau," she shot back, falling into a ready stance. "Less talking, more bruises."

With that, she lunged.

Chapter Text

Swords battered into the shape of an ‘X’, but she danced around his experience, her blade eventually finding angles that shouldn't exist.

The crowd's murmur grew to a roar. The dueler could feel their eyes pressed upon her every move, Midland soldiers who'd heard whispers of her work, original Band members who knew better than to bet against her fury. His counterattack forced her to leap back. Dust kicked up beneath her boots, coating her throat with grit.

"Getting slow, old man?" she taunted, circling him to spot the slivers of weakness he held in his stance.

Laban's laugh came genuine and breathless. "Just letting you tire yourself out, girl."

But they both knew better. She could see it in the slight tremor of his sword arm, the way his stance had shifted defensive. Time to end this dance. She feinted left, a move so obvious it was insulting and when he moved to counter, she was already gone. She dropped low, swept his legs with hers, and brought her practice blade up in the same fluid motion. The tip pressed against his throat before his back even hit the ground.

Silence. 

Then an eruption.

The Hawks cheered loudest, but even the Midland soldiers couldn't hide their appreciation. She held the position just enough to let the lesson sink in, before offering her hand.

"Good fight," she said, hauling him to his feet. Laban dusted himself off, a wry grin forming despite his defeat.

"Remind me never to challenge you when you're actually trying," he muttered, earning laughs from the crowd.

Laban's laugh was scraped raw by the dust and the strain of the fight. "A lesson I learned the hard way a long time ago," he grunted, the metal of his gauntlet cool against her skin as he found his feet. "A blade thinks faster than a man ever can."

She was about to offer a retort, a sharp-witted thing about an old man's thoughts slowing to a crawl, when a dramatic sigh cut through the dissipating chatter. Owen, with a face that seemed perpetually caught between disapproval and mild indigestion, shook his head as he approached.

"Well, there goes my week's wages," he lamented, clapping Laban on the shoulder with a hollow thud. "I had you down for at least putting her on her back once, Commander."

Laban scoffed, "Then you're a bigger fool than I took you for, Owen. Wasn't wise now, was it?" He shot a glance at the swordswoman, "You wagered against the blood of Kael the Great? I knew Midland bias was a heavy blinder, but I didn't think it was fatal to common sense."

Owen’s face soured, the playful disappointment curdling into a sulk. "She's new to the regiment..." he mumbled. He knew, as they all did, that some bloodlines were rivers, carving their own path through the world, heedless of the landscape. Kael’s was a river of blood and steel.

Before the silence could get too heavy, Judeau came bounding over, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

"See? This is what I'm talking about," he declared to the heavens. "Griffith's got me on detail ‘protecting’ her, and here she is, schooling our veteran commanders. Honestly, it's a little insulting. I feel like a man sent to guard a fortress with a slingshot."

Griffith. The silent leash she’d been trying to forget all morning. She had hoped the sweat and violence would be enough to scrub the memory of their conversation from her mind, but here it was, brought back by Judeau's easy tongue. She replied with a brittle laugh, too quick and too loud. She ducked out from under Judeau's arm, hoping the movement looked more like playfulness than escape.

"Someone has to keep you out of trouble, Judeau." She pointed a thumb toward the distant clatter of pots and barrels near the center of the camp. "All this talking is making me thirsty. I’ll be right back around.”

Before she could even hear him, his voice was swallowed by the crowd that funnelled towards the field. The canteen by the supply wagon called to her like salvation. She'd barely finished her second gulp when movement caught her eye, a Midland knight hovering nearby with polished armor and nervous energy. He was young. They all seemed young these days. Clean-shaven, with that particular shine that hadn't been worn down by too many winters on campaign. His smile beamed fresh, untouched whippings of the harsh life on the campaign.

"That technique," he started, then stopped, then started again. "The way you dropped and swept- I've never seen anything like it."

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, considering him with the same interest she'd give a mildly amusing beetle. "It's not complicated. Use their strength against them. Move where they don't expect."

His eyes went wide like she'd just revealed the secrets of the universe. "But the timing- the precision required-"

"Practice," she cut him off.  "Lots of practice and plenty of scars."

He faltered in his steel boots before bowing to her enough to make her brows furrow in confusion. 

“The name’s Arnold, you can just call me a fan.” His back straightened with a sheepish smile. 

“Sir Arnold… right.” She said and the silence between them stretched enough for her to avert her gaze to an escape to sit down in. Preferably in the quiet, away from him.

“I have duties to attend to.” She replied amidst the silence between them and he moved to speak but his propped open jaw offered nothing more than an awkward squeak. She left him there, still gaping, probably composing epic ballads in his head about the mysterious swordswoman of the Hawks. Let him. Reality had a way of grinding those fantasies to dust soon enough. The evening had crept up while she wasn't watching, painting everything in shades of amber and shadow. She needed space, needed to wash the day's sweat and spectacle from her skin. The stream she'd spotted earlier would do.

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

Casca sat by a small fire, one of the only ones next to the camp as the sun was setting. Probably the midland military was pissing away responsibilities with drinking. For some reason Casca lingered next to the Midland camp. So still she might've been carved from the same stone as the rocks around her. The firelight caught in her dark eyes trapped. Whatever thoughts held her, they ran deep enough to drown in. The swordswoman found herself drawn forward, like iron to lodestone. She'd seen Casca in battle commanding troops with an authority that made grown men snap to attention. But this Casca, caught in some private contemplation, was different. When those copper eyes finally found hers, they narrowed to slits. The usual dance, then. The territorial atmosphere bloomed between them. 

Except... she was just too damn tired for it tonight.

She dropped onto a log across from Casca with all the grace of a sack of grain. Fire crackled, filling the silence with its ancient conversation. Somewhere in the distance, autumn whispered threats of the winter to come, its chill already starting to bite through her sweat-dampened clothes.

"Thank you." Her words were so quiet she almost missed them. Casca still stared into the fire. "For the willow bark. It..." A pause, weighted with pride struggling against gratitude. "It came in handy. After Guts and I fell. Off that cliff."

The swordswoman blinked. Of all the things she'd expected, gratitude hadn't made the list. She studied Casca's profile and in it, it felt like it spoke to her more than Casca’s words itself. 

"Must've been some fall," The swordswoman said finally.

Casca laughed, "You could say that."

The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling into the darkening sky. Silence that settled between them was a different beast than the quiet before. She watched the flames lick at a fresh piece of pine, the sap popping like miniature skirmishes. In the world of the Hawks, you were a tool, a weapon. You were judged by your edge, your durability. No one ever stopped to ask if the sword was weary. So when Casca’s voice, rough as whetstone, cut through the crackling fire, it startled her more than any ambush ever could.

"And you?" Casca asked, her gaze still fixed on the dancing flames. "How are you holding up in this new, polished world?"

The question was so unexpected, that for a moment, the swordswoman's mind was a fortress besieged by a gentle inquiry it had no defense against. She nearly laughed. How was she? She was a storm kept in a bottle, that’s how she was.

"I think I'd rather listen to Corkus whine about his treatment for a year straight than spend another day taking tea with some powdered commander," she finally admitted, "They look at you, but they don't see you."

Casca made a small sound of agreement, a note of grim understanding. "It's understandable. You're not built for that. I always knew this was part of the dream. But we are all sitting at the table and the fancy chairs feel so uncomfortable, you know? Even before we are fully seated in them."

The swordswoman nodded "It's more than that." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, feeling the heat of flames press on her face, "I feel… Trapped. My duty is to watch commanders, to be the final wall for them. Nothing is more important, I know that. But it's a feeling I can't shake. Like… I’m not… sacrificing enough."

Casca finally turned her head’ eyes met the swordswoman across the flames.

"Is that my voice you hear?" she asked, her tone dry. "The one that called you pampered?"

The swordswoman’s jaw tightened. She didn't  look away, but the truth was there. She gave a  nod. It was part of it. A sliver of the truth, at least.

Casca seemed to understand her. Or at least gave the Swordswoman a look that did. "Who are you stacking your sacrifices against?" she pressed, her voice low. "Guts, who throws his body into the meat grinder every chance he gets? Me? Judeau?"

Crackling continued to devour the quiet. None of the names felt like the right answer. None of them were the standard she held herself to.

"Or is it him?" Casca whispered, and the question landed not like a stone, but like a perfectly thrown dagger. "Is it Griffith you're measuring yourself against?"

The air stilled. The distant sounds of the camp faded to nothing. There was only the fire, and Casca’s unflinching gaze, and a truth that felt heavier than any armor. She stared into the heart of the flames, watching them consume the wood, turning sacrifice into light and heat.

"Maybe," she said.

Casca blinked, "Trying to out-sacrifice Griffith is a task harder than ending the Hundred Year War on your own. Do you have any concept of what he's given up?"

The swordswoman bristled, "I have an idea."

"Do you? Do you see the nights he doesn't sleep, a ghost haunting maps while we rest? The hollowed-out smiles he plasters on for every sycophantic noble? The way he cuts pieces from his own soul to pave this road for us?" She leaned in, the firelight catching the feral glint in her eyes. "Every step is a price. I think he even..."

She stopped. The sentence died in her throat, strangled by a sudden, fierce reluctance.

“What?” The swordswoman dared her to continue.

“I think he even had to appease Gennon.” Images flashed in the swordswoman's mind, unbidden and grotesque: the portly, sweating governor, his eyes like those of a pig rooting in filth. The thought was a clot of bile rising in her throat.

"Gennon?" she repeated, “What are you talking about?"

Casca’s silence was louder than a war horn. She had pulled back a curtain she never meant to, and now she was desperately trying to close it. The swordswoman smelled the secret, a scent like old blood. She leaned forward, her entire being focused into a single point.

"What exactly do you mean, Casca?"

Casca averted her gaze, finally looking back into the fire as if searching for an escape in the flames. She let out a long, weary sigh, the fight draining from her. "I saw them," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Years ago. On a balcony. It was just a moment, but… it wasn't right." She paused, picking her words with the care of someone disarming a trap. "You know the rumors. The whispers about him and the old vipers in court."

The swordswoman didn't reply. She knew. They were just that. Whispers. Venom spat by jealous rivals. She'd never given them weight.

"After that night," Casca continued, “he changed. Just a little. Griffith had plenty of chances to get Gennon's patronage back then, but he never took them. It was only after more than a few children died… that things got desperate." She shook her head. "He said it was for money."

Money.

The word felt pathetic, an insult to the act her mind was now painting in horrific detail. It didn't make sense. It was a trade that made no profit. A molten rage surged through the swordswoman, hot and blinding. The cold logic of it was blasphemy. It was an excuse. A story they told themselves to make the monstrous seem noble.

"How would you know that?" she snapped, the words cracking like a whip. "How could you possibly know that's why?"

"Because," she said, her voice flat and final, "he told me his reasons for it after I witnessed it."

The swordswoman stood abruptly. She didn’t want to hear it anymore. She’d rather clasp her ears with the comfortability of not knowing what Casca meant at this moment. "I'm turning in." 

Her back turned to Casca as a necessary shield. She could feel the heat of Casca's gaze on her spine, but more than that, she felt the scalding tracks of tears carving paths through the grime on her cheeks. She did not dare wipe them away. To acknowledge them would be to break completely. She did not wait for a reply, did not grant the courtesy of an exit. She walked, then her walk quickened, each step an attempt to outrun the phantom of hurt that followed her. The camp was finally a tapestry of low fires and softer conversations. Judeau, leaning against a weapons cart and polishing a throwing knife, caught her eye. His face split into an easy smile.

"Night, Commander! See you don't dream of beating up any more old Midland vets!" His cheerful voice was unknowingly torturous. She felt it strike her, and her stride never faltered. She passed him as if he were a ghost she could not see, a sound she could not hear.

She ripped the canvas flaps aside with a ferocity that sent them snapping against the tent ropes. Her eyes, burning with unshed tears, scanned the familiar space- the campaign desk, the folded armor, the fur-lined bedroll. She was looking for him. Looking for the falcon, the white hawk, for the center of her world. But the tent held a hollow echo. An emptiness that was a physical presence, a cold and waiting thing. And the truth struck her with the force of a mace to the ribs: Of course he wasn't here. He would be out, charming some noble, securing some new alliance, and he would not return until the faint candlelight from her tent was long extinguished, until he was sure she was lost to the shores of sleep. A quiet, bloodless maneuver to avoid a battle he had no taste for.

The lump in her throat was a golem of unshed grief, thick and suffocating. She needed air, needed water, needed something to wash away the feeling of filth that clung to her not on her skin, but inside it. She grabbed a towel and headed for the lake to bathe with her head ducked low. She slipped into the steaming water in a secluded corner, wedged between rocks, hiding from the gentle inquiries of her attendant, Elara, whose kindness felt like an accusation. The water was hot, but it could not scald away the chill that had taken root in her bones. The cleansing was a lie. When she returned, dripping and colder than before, the tent was just as she had left it. Empty. Silent. The quiet was no longer peaceful. It was an answer. A confirmation. A gaping void where a god used to be. The silence in the tent wasn't just quiet. It breathed in all the cold spaces he'd left behind. It pooled in the shadows his armor cast, settled into the folds of his untouched bedroll, and clung to every surface like morning frost. She sat on her cot feeling like a ghost haunting her own life, while Casca's words ate at her insides like slow-acting poison.

Lied to.  

Every thought was another strike of the pickaxe, chipping away at foundations she hadn't even known were holding her up. But then that cold, cruel voice of reason would slither back:

Lied to about what, exactly?  

He didn't owe her those kinds of truths. They were commander and soldier. Their bond had been forged in blood and battle. What claim did she have on his secrets?

The question mocked her, because the pain was real enough. It wasn't about having some right to his body. It was about thinking she'd earned his trust. Why Casca? Why had he peeled back that raw, wounded part of himself for her, but not for the one who'd sworn to be his shadow until death- true even if unspoken? Gennon was a grotesque key, unlocking doors in her memory she'd never thought to examine. All those endless court functions. The closed-door meetings with ministers who'd looked at Griffith like starving dogs eyeing fresh meat. Had he sold pieces of himself to them too? Was his glorious ascent paved not just with enemy corpses, but with the quiet, debasing currency of his own flesh. The thought was blasphemy. It took the sublime myth of what Griffith was to her and turned it into some grim merchant's ledger. Now she’d get it. It made her spiral all the more deeper. The Falcon had soared to heights where the air was too thin for truth-sharing, where every offering was his alone to make and hide. She sat there waiting, the lamp's flame matching the stubborn burn of anger in her chest.She lost count how long she stared at the tent’s walls, making the world's edges go soft and strange. Her body, wrung out from sparring and this emotional siege, started betraying her. Her head dipped from a slow surrender to exhaustion.

A faint rustle of canvas yanked her back from the edge of sleep.

He moved like a ghost in his own tent. The lamplight caught the wet gleam of his silver hair, combed back from a face that looked carved from moonlight and exhaustion. Just a simple linen tunic, armor already shed, his skin scrubbed clean of whatever filth, political or otherwise, the night had smeared on him. Already bathed. He went still when he saw her, she could only guess he seemed surprised and he looked immaculate while he did. And she'd never felt dirtier in his presence before. More than probably he felt for himself, god knows. His stillness was the best armor for him at that moment.

"We need to talk." The words felt clumsy and wrong in her mouth, like a blade she'd never meant to draw against him.

His gaze met hers, "About what?"

The sound that escaped her was hidden beneath the blindness caused by her emotions. She shook her head and only then felt the wetness on her cheeks. Crying without permission. The question felt like dragging broken glass across her throat. "Gennon," she managed, the name itself feeling obscene. "The Tudor King. Why would you be with him?"

His eyes narrowed and the silence stretched for so long it hurt to sit in it. Finally, his voice came out, "The Band can't conjure money from thin air."

The sheer bloodlessness of it stole her breath. A yell started building in her chest but died in her throat, strangled by his cold logic. This was just accounting to him. Numbers in columns. The dueler dragged in a shaky breath, trying to forge her fury into something sharper.

 "Was it for money?" Her voice trembled. "Your... time with him?" The next words barely made it out. "Do you even like men?"

He didn't even flinch while his composure was a wall of ice. "I don't like Gennon, but the king likes men. Particularly me. Our coffers were empty, the men needed proper steel and medicine. It was a necessary strategy."

Strategy.

The word broke her. The myth of him in her eyes cracked open to reveal the cold merchant underneath. He was a fortress, calmly explaining how he'd sold his own stones for gold. Her last thread of restraint snapped. "Strategy?" She sobbed and tears came freely now. "You're hurting yourself! You're... you're selling your body! "

“For my dream. And for that, we need money."

Words knocked all the air from her lungs. "I don't want that," she sobbed,  words crumbling under their own weight. "I don't want you to have to sell your body for this dream!"

"Quiet down.” He hissed, stepping forward as if to silence her then.

"Don't you tell me shit!" she screamed, her voice cracking raw and ugly in the tent's confines. The dam had shattered. Years of unspoken devotion, of silent worship, came flooding out as pure betrayal. "You slept with the bastard! The bastard that rules over the same filth that killed my father!" She saw him differently now. As a tainted being touted beneath sheep’s wool for once, something that had traded away pieces she'd thought were sacred. 

He moved faster than thought. One moment he stood by the entrance, the next his hands locked around her wrists like shackles. "I am the only chance you have of ever avenging him. I am the only path to the power you need to burn their world to the ground. And you are too short-sighted to see it."

She twisted against his grip, turned her face away from those arctic eyes, as if looking at him any longer might freeze her solid. Tears blurred everything, turning the tent into a smear of lamplight and shadow. He didn't let go. If anything, his hold tightened, keeping her from drifting into the abyss. 

He tells her, "I am the one who must always see the next ten steps." Each word was a stone laid on some invisible path only he could walk. "While the rest of you fumble in the dark, I drag us forward. Without these sacrifices- without me carving pieces from my own hide to feed the dream, you'd have thrown yourself on some nameless sword years ago."

She sucked in breathes believing in some way he was right. He'd been her anchor, the star she followed, pulling her back from the edge of self-destruction. But that salvation felt scalding now. "Did it hurt?" The whisper escaped before she could stop it. There was no need to specify it. It was about the hidden wounds, the quiet violations, the pieces of himself he'd traded away for progress. Before tonight, before the veil got torn, had he felt the pain? Blue eyes widened, ogling into hers like she'd found some vault he'd sealed shut years ago. The air thickened with ghosts of unsaid confessions before he finally spoke.

"It was necessary." He said.

A sigh escaped her, weary and defeated, carrying the weight of battles fought in places that had no names. "I have a headache," she murmured. Finally, he let her go and turned to his bedroll, unrolling it across the tent floor. The fabric whispered against the ground, filling the sudden void with soft sounds. The swordswoman watched him, body curling inward on itself over the cot. But the question clawed its way out, born from the vivid ghost of a memory that still set her skin aflame. The night his touch had unraveled her, coaxed from her a release so profound it had felt like stars exploding in her veins, a moment that eclipsed all of the world's cruelties and problems for her to stave and solve. 

"Why did y ou touch me before? Why… like that?" She asked it out some sick way of measuring herself up to his dalliances before.

He paused in his task with his back to her. When he turned, he looked lost in his own reasons, "I don't exactly know why. Outside of… it just felt right. At that moment, I wanted it."

He regarded her, curled like a wounded animal in the dim glow, and a sigh slipped from her, "I haven't done any of that recently. It was back then, before we ever got this close. Before all of this… what we have now."

Sorrow that welled up in fresh sniffles, hot and insistent against her resolve. She shook her head, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, the motion as futile as trying to dam a river with bare fists. "It's not about that," she managed, her voice breaking on the rocks of unshed tears. "It's about the man I lo-" The confession faltered, she corrected it swiftly, desperately, as if the slip had been a fatal misstep on a narrow ledge. "We grew up together. I care about you. And you know you hated every second of it."

"I have agency over my own body, Ultimately, it's my decision. And Gennon… he was fueling his own demise without even realizing it."

He looked back at her, those blue eyes searching for something in her averted gaze, but she turned away. She stared into the tent's dim corners where shadows pooled like spilled ink, hiding the raw edges of her breaking heart. She lay there for some time, still as a fallen statue, the weight of his revelations pressing her into the thin mattress. The air grew thick with everything unsaid until finally, his voice cut through- softer than she'd ever heard it.

"I'm sorry." The words came reluctant, tasting of unfamiliar humility. "More so for betraying you than anything else."

A bitter scoff bubbled up. She didn't look at him, couldn't bear to see that perfect composure cracking. "That's a first."

"I want to avenge you, too," he confessed, the words stagnant in dim lighting. "Sleeping with the enemy... it was hard for me to push through. For those reasons exactly."

Hurt wrapped them like a confessional, muffling the outside world until all that remained was their shared breath and unspoken torments. Every sound amplified. She lay there, coiled tight with fury and grief, his apology still echoing- strange and almost unreal from a man who rarely bent to regret.

"When?" The question slipped out of her. "When did it happen?"

He didn't answer immediately. She could sense him there, more presence than shape in the gloom. When his voice came, it was measured. "Before the campaign. Years ago, back when the Band was still scraping by on scraps and promises. I remember seeing Casca there, in the shadows- her eyes wide, like she'd stumbled onto a battlefield she wasn't meant to witness. But I went through with it anyway. We needed the money for supplies. Armor that wouldn't shatter on the first charge, medicine that could actually heal instead of just delaying death. It was a choice, like any other."

Words painted truths she didn't want to see. She stared at him, straining to read his face for cracks in that armor of resolve. "Is it worth it?" Her voice came out fragile, quivering with doubt. 

He shifted slightly, and when he spoke, it was with quiet certainty. "We've been successful. Less deaths. So yes."

The darkness had become suffocating, her emotions churning like a storm-tossed vessel taking on water with every revelation. A laugh tore from her- ragged, wet with tears that wouldn't stop. 

"After all this, I nearly want to quit this whole damn campaign. Walk away from this dream. Whatever the hell it is."

He snapped to her. "Take it back." His words were laced with fury that bordered on desperation. "Don't jest about that. Not now. Not ever."

"I'm not." Her haphazard decision propelled her forward. She reached for the smaller second lamp with trembling hands, fumbling until her fingers found the flint. A spark caught, bloomed into flame, throwing their shadows long and monstrous against the canvas. She began gathering her things- cloak over her arm, boots snatched from the floor. Then he was on her instantly, His hand closed around the lamp, ripping it from her grasp and setting it aside with controlled force. Those sapphire eyes bored into hers. "You would die if you went out there." It was a prophecy slithering between his lips. "The world beyond these banners is a graveyard for fools who think they can stand alone."

"I can handle myself." Defiance flared, her chin lifting in challenge. His hand moved to the sword at his belt, drawing it nearly silent.

"Lay back down and sleep." He held his stance.

She stopped breathing. Her eyes widened, heart hammering. He was going to... attack her? "Put it away," she whispered, voice cracking, hands raising in surrender. "Griffith- put the weapon away-!"

"You will not leave me!"

The air between them turned thick as tar. She swallowed hard enough for spittle to scrape her throat. His blade hovered there, but she met his eyes with the last of her defiance. He's bluffing. The thought was desperate, a gambler's last coin. "You wouldn't," she whispered, stepping forward to brush past him. But he was no bluff. His free hand hooked her arm, twisting and before she could breathe, her body hit the ground. The impact jarred through her bones like a cavalry charge. She air knocked out of her chest, confusion blooming like poison in her chest. Pain shot through her shoulder, the joint screaming on the edge of dislocation. She writhed beneath him, muscles straining against the cage of his body as he straddled her. His weight was immovable, knees bracketing her hips, hands like iron on her wrists that pulled them over her head. The lamplight threw their struggle in twisting shadows across the canvas walls.

"You would die out there because you're actively being hunted. Tudor mercenaries slinking through the borders with knives meant for your throat." He leaned closer, breath hot against her ear, "Those bounties you spoke of? They left a paper trail straight to the coffers of hunters. Rewards fattened from a void I’m still trying to figure out."

She twisted again- futile. His grip held like ancient roots in a storm. "I won't let you leave knowing that. Not while they're waiting to claim your head." He paused, simmering in his contemplation while her wrists began to ache. Then the admission slipped out reluctantly. "It could be because Gennon is still after me." His voice dipped into rare uncertainty. "I'm not sure. But the shadows point that way- his grudges festering like untreated wounds."

She flinched, involuntary, her mind reeling from the image of that bloated spider still spinning webs from afar. But Griffith didn't relent, didn't soften. His hold was an anchor in her storm, refusing to let her drift into the abyss.

"I just want to protect everyone," he pressed on, his words solemn in the lamp's unforgiving glow. "I don't want my men, any of you, to die needlessly, bleeding out on some forgotten field when there's an easier way. A path that spares the senseless slaughter." His eyes bored into hers, sapphire depths churning with something that bordered on pleading. "And you... you're being selfish, not realizing that. Throwing yourself into fate's jaws, blind to the greater design. This isn't just about you- it's about all of us."

The words were a white flag in a war she no longer had strength to wage. "Fine," she relented, her voice frayed at the edges. "I understand." It was less conviction than exhaustion, a river finally yielding to its dam, but in that yielding, something fragile bloomed- tentative as first light over a bloodied field. He relented then, slightly. The iron grip softened like cooling steel, his weight easing as if testing the waters of trust. But he didn't fully withdraw. Instead, his hand moved with foreign gentleness, brushing a stray lock from her face tender, like clearing mist from something sacred. His fingers lingered, tracing down to her neck where he found her pulse, feeling the frantic drum of her heart beneath his touch. It was intimate cartography, mapping her life force, soothing the storm inside.

"I want to make it safe for you, too," he murmured, voice low as a hymn. "A world where you can stand without shadows nipping at your heels."

She scowled, the expression twisting their fragile truce into something barbed. The touch meant to mend felt like salt in wounds- a reminder of distances he'd imposed, chasms he'd carved between them.

"Stop." She wriggled just enough to underscore her words, voice laced with old hurts. "You've wanted nothing but to disappear ever since you last... ate me out. Like I was some indulgence you'd regret come morning." He paused, fingers stilling against her skin. His eyes held hers with rare, unguarded intensity, peeling back layers of armor to reveal the man beneath the myth. "I did that," he admitted, tone steady but edged with something raw, "because if I hadn't pulled away, I would have fucked you. Buried myself in you until the world fell away. And you would have ended up swollen with my child in the heart of our biggest campaign. A distraction, a vulnerability we couldn't afford."

Words were lightning from clear sky. Heat bloomed across her cheeks, spreading like wildfire through her veins. She was stunned silent, mind whirling with shock and unspoken desires, the vivid imagery rooting her in place- a statue caught in revelation's glow, blushing and wordless in the flickering lamplight. She faltered into silence. All that remained was the sound of their breathing. His measured, hers ragged. He leaned forward, his intention clear in the tilt of his head, lips seeking hers like a moth to flame. But she snapped her face away.

"Don't touch me. This isn't over until my bones are stained with his blood through my hands."

He paused, suspended in that rejected space between them. His eyes narrowed. Then he stood, finally releasing her from the cage of his body, allowing her limbs to remember their freedom. Without another word, he moved to his bedroll. She remained where she was, too disgusted- with him, with herself, with this entire twisted tapestry- to speak. The silence that settled between them was armistice, temporary and fragile. She crawled to her own bedroll and surrendered to a sleep that brought no rest, only darkness.

And well,

the next battle that loomed before them was Doldrey.

It hung over the camp as a storm cloud, spoken of in hushed, reverent tones as the most crucial battle of their campaign. The fortress that could turn the tide, break the stalemate, crown their ambitions or bury them. And somewhere within those walls waited the being who had dared to touch Griffith before she ever could. Who fostered the plan that killed her father. The thought was pathetic- she knew it, felt the shame of it burning in her chest like swallowed coals. Griffith likely didn't deserve that particular poison she was feeding herself. But she couldn't help it. The image of those rugged, entitled hands on Griffith's skin affected her more than it seemed to affect him.

When the battle morning came, she was already withdrawn deep inside her armor. Atop Viola, she was a statue of war. The armor wasn't just protection; it was sanctuary, a shell between her and the world that had grown too sharp to touch. 

Judeau rode up beside her, his horse's hooves beating a nervous rhythm against the packed earth. His face, usually bright with easy smiles, was creased with concern. "You alright?" The question hung in the morning mist, gentle as it was unwanted.

She didn't speak. Didn't even turn her head. The horizon held all her attention- or seemed to.

"Geez," he sighed, trying for levity but landing somewhere closer to hurt. "You're having a streak of ignoring me, aren't you?"

For once, the cold that had settled in her bones found its voice. She turned to him, and her eyes through the helmet's slit were winter itself. "Look forward if you plan on protecting me like Griffith asked you to." Each word was devoid of the warmth she'd once shown freely. "There's a bounty on my head. Focus on that instead."

Judeau's face shifted, the easy camaraderie replaced with something more professional, more distant. He nodded once and turned his attention to the battlefield ahead, where Doldrey rose like a tooth from the earth, waiting to draw blood. Around them, the Band of the Hawk prepared for war- weapons checked, prayers whispered, final letters tucked against hearts that might stop beating before the day was done. But she felt separate from it all, enclosed in her metal tomb.

The fortress walls seemed to mock her from miles away. It looked larger farther away than it did close. Somewhere behind those stones was Gennon, the name alone made bile rise in her throat. Not just an enemy general but a piece of Griffith's past she'd never known existed. Worse, she would have to look upon him, knowing what she knew, knowing what those hands had done, knowing that Griffith had allowed it for the sake of dreams and coins. For lives. She felt selfish but didn’t at the same time. 

Her grip tightened on Viola's reins. The mare, sensing her rider's turmoil, shifted restlessly, hooves dancing in place. But she held her still, held herself still, became the very embodiment of controlled violence waiting to be unleashed.

This was Doldrey. This was the crucial battle. This was where dreams would be won or lost. And she would ride into it carrying wounds no armor could protect.

Chapter Text

Before the march to get to Gennon's neck, the desert was cold. It was hours before she had finished packing the tent. Around her, the Band of the Hawk moved with purpose- weapons being sharpened, armor checked, horses fed. Doldrey loomed in everyone's thoughts, though none spoke of it directly. She was fastening the straps on her saddlebag when a solid weight collided with her shoulder.

"My apologies-"

Lord Percival's voice died in his throat as she turned. His face, already faint in the dawn light, went ashen. The Swordswoman straightened, a mean mug forming on her face.

"Lord Percival." Her voice was flat, devoid of courtesy.

He took a step back, then seemed to remember himself, his station, his pride. He was steadily avoiding her eyes ever since the last battle.

Until now.

She scoffed, turning away to continue her preparations. The less time spent in his presence, the better. She had saved his miserable life during the last skirmish. Not out of any fondness of course.

"Wait."

His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. She paused, keeping her back facing him.

"The bounty," Percival said. "The one the Tudor has placed on your head. Have you... have you heard the amount?"

Now she did turn, her eyes narrowing. "What?"

Percival swallowed, his fingers fidgeting with the pommel of his ornamental sword. "One hundred thousand gold pieces. Apparently, you've killed three of their generals personally."

The Swordswoman's jaw tightened. One hundred thousand. More than most nobles saw in a lifetime. She happened to fall for him too

"Why do you care?" she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

Percival's hand disappeared into his coat, emerging with something small that glinted dully in the morning light. A key, old and ornate, dangled from a worn leather cord.

"I'm trying to help you," he said, extending it toward her.

The Swordswoman's eyes narrowed to slits. "What is this?"

He scoffed, a bitter sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm not fully the asshole you portray me to be." He thrust the key closer. "It's a thank you. Even if you happen to have a sharp mouth at times."

She didn't take it. Percival sighed.

"It leads to Kael's possessions. Before he was thrown out of Midland. I had them for safekeeping. We were..." He paused, something genuine flickering across his features. "We were best friends before."

The Swordswoman stared at him. The weak chin, the nervous hands, the eyes that couldn't quite meet hers, but beneath it all, she could see it. Something that reminded her of her father.

She scoffed, disbelief sharp in her voice. "Really?"

"Him, Laban, Lyle, and myself. Owen was a kid coming up at the time." Percival's voice softened with memory. "We were like brothers. Before… everything."

"Then why the hell would you flirt with me?"

Percival had the decency to look ashamed before admitting it. "I wanted to test Griffith more than you. You're not so far from your father in terms of people having a hold on them. But I get it, funnily enough, I thought your father was lucky to be killed rather than to live and have to serve into something that created his downfall. But alas, we aren’t talking about my story."  Percival sighed, pressing the key into her palm before she could refuse. "I suppose Lyle will eventually spill the beans anyway. He always does." He glanced toward the noble tents where the other lords were emerging. "Your father left things behind. Things you should know about. Things about why he really defected."

"What do you mean, 'really defected'?"

But Percival was already walking away, his shoulders hunched as if carrying a great weight. Whether it was shame he still felt or not. When she was riding over Viola, heading to the waves of blue spilling over the desert plains, it was hours after her encounter with Percival. The key hung heavy against the Swordswoman's chest, tucked beneath her armor where no one could see. Percival had given it to her in case he died- that much was obvious. Men facing Doldrey's walls understood the mathematics of mortality. But his words had burrowed deep, festering in the quiet spaces of her mind.

Having a hold over her.

The thought gnawed at her as the army moved across the Midland plains. Doldrey rose before them, a titan of sandstone and spite, scrubbed clean of old blood, its walls reaching toward heaven like accusing fingers. Somewhere within that fortress of nightmares, Gennon waited.

Her jaw clenched at the thought of him.

"Pretty impressive, isn't it?"

Judeau's voice pulled her from the spiral of her thoughts. He rode beside her while his fingers worked absently at a leather pouch, checking the knives within for the hundredth time.

She glanced at him, then back at Doldrey's maw. "What is?"

"These." He pulled out one of the blades, holding it up so the overbearing sunlight caught its edge. "Made them specifically for Tudor armor. See how the tip tapers? Slides right between the plates. Been working on the design for months." Genuine pride colored his voice, the kind of satisfaction a craftsman took in perfecting his art.

The Swordswoman managed what might have been a smile, though it felt foreign on her face. "You'll get to test them soon enough."

"That's the idea." Judeau slipped the knife back into its sheath, but his eyes lingered on her. Probably reading the thoughts she had as if they were bold lettering written over her.

Ahead, Griffith rode at the vanguard of the Band of the Hawk, his white armor catching all of the sun. The plan was solid: split their forces, draw the Tudor garrison out, create confusion in their ranks. It was the kind of tactical brilliance that had made Griffith legendary.

But it felt empty. Hollow.

Because she wasn't part of it. Never truly was.

Her eyes returned to Doldrey, scanning the distant walls with predatory focus. Somewhere in that blue sea of Tudor soldiers, Gennon hid behind his title and his gold. The man who had bought Griffith's body like one might purchase a fine horse. The man whose death she had promised herself in the dark hours of too many sleepless nights. She tried to pick him out from the mass of armor and banners, searching for any sign of his retinue.

"You're looking for someone." Judeau stated.

"The bounty," she said instead, deflecting. "One hundred thousand gold pieces. Percival told me this morning."

The knife-thrower whistled low. "That's more than most kingdoms spend on a war. You've made quite an impression on them."

"Three generals," she said flatly. "Apparently that warrants the title 'Midland Demon.'"

But even as she spoke, another truth whispered beneath the words- one Percival hadn't known, couldn't have known. One hundred thousand gold pieces wasn't just about dead generals. That kind of money, that kind of focused hatred, came from something more personal.

Gennon and Envy. That's what this was. The bounty wasn't about military strategy or dead generals.

It was about her closeness to Griffith.

Her father had defected from Midland for reasons she'd never fully understood. And now she rode toward Doldrey with secrets hanging around her neck and a bounty on her head placed by a man who had violated the one person she felt no end to.

"Stay close when it starts," Judeau said, misreading her silence for fear. 

She didn't answer. Her eyes remained fixed on Doldrey's walls, searching the blue haystack for one particular needle, one throat to cut, one debt to settle in blood.

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of foreign steel.

But the line stopped.

The Swordswoman felt it ripple through the army like a held breath, thousands of men and horses going still as stone while the sun beat down mercilessly from a sky the color of bleached bone. Ahead, Owen's voice carried across the ranks, explaining Griffith's strategy. Split forces. Flanking maneuvers. Calculated chaos. But all she could see was the line of blue on the horizon. Tudor's army moved like a living thing, a serpent of sapphire scales and steel that seemed to shimmer in the heat haze rising from the desert floor. They came not with the thunder of hooves but with the inexorable patience of the tide, and Doldrey loomed behind them like a god's broken tooth jutting from the sand.

Then Griffith's arm rose- white armor blazing like a fallen star… and fell.

The line surged forward. The Swordswoman's horse lunged beneath her, and immediately the world became heat and motion and the taste of copper on her tongue. Her armor felt like an oven, the metal plates conducting the desert sun until she could feel it cooking her alive inside her own shell. Sweat ran in rivers down her spine, stinging her eyes, making her grip slick on her sword's leather-wrapped hilt.

Focus.

She forced herself to breathe, to think, to see beyond the wall of bodies and banners rushing toward collision. The nobles clustered around her like nervous sheep, their ornamental armor glinting uselessly in the brutal light. Lyle gathered on her left flank, his face grim beneath his helmet, and she felt rather than see the other nobles quietly positioning themselves to cover her flanks.

Protecting her. The irony would have been funny if her throat wasn't so dry it felt like swallowing sand.

But she was too focused on the front, on that blue mass of Tudor soldiers, searching, always searching for one particular face among thousands. Gennon had to be here. Men like him always positioned themselves close enough to the battle to claim glory but far enough back to preserve their precious skin. She scanned the enemy lines with predatory intensity, looking for his colors, his retinue, any sign of-

The impact came like the world ending.

Tudor's vanguard hit Midland's line with a sound like mountains collapsing. Men screamed. Horses shrieked. The desert floor began its transformation into mud from blood. And then she saw them. Tudor in double plated armor, swallowed in decorations that made them stand pedestals high. She had heard rumors, whispered stories around campfires about Tudor's elite- warriors who wore double layered armor so thick that arrows bounced off like rain, who could wade through common soldiers like farmers through wheat. But seeing them was different. They were titans, each one a walking fortress of interlocking plates and chain, their armor a deeper blue than the standard Tudor livery, almost black in the shadows.

They crashed into the Midland flank like a battering ram into kindling.

"Hold!" Lyle yelled, and for the first time since she'd known him- this preening noble who played at war like it was a tournament, she saw him fight.

His sword was smart, finding the gaps in the impossible armor and making blood spray. A Tudor knight bore down on him, a mountain of metal and murder, and Lyle didn't flinch. He stepped inside the giant's guard, his blade sliding up beneath the gorget where double armor became single, and the knight went down like a felled tree.

Blood splattered across sand, turning it to dark paste.

Another knight charged, and Lyle killed him too- this time driving his point through the eye slit with such force that the blade punched out the back of the helmet. The body toppled, and Lyle was already finding another kill. They must’ve gotten better at fighting, good. They had simply never needed to show their teeth before.

"Left!" Judeau's shout snapped her attention around.

Three double plated Tudor had broken through, making straight for her position. Their armor caught the sun like dark water, and she could see her reflection distorted in their breastplates- a small figure, dwarfed by their mass, marked by a bounty that made her worth more dead than most men were worth alive. The Swordswoman's lips pulled back from her teeth.

One hundred thousand gold pieces.

Let's see if they can collect.

Swings the Swordswoman couldn’t keep track of sent fire racing up to her shoulder, but she didn't stop- couldn't. The blue waves kept coming, wave after wave of armored death, and she met them head on, regardless of her muscles crying and viola screaming beneath her. A knight's mace whistled past her head. She ducked, feeling the wind of its passage, and drove her sword up into his armpit where the double plates couldn't reach. Hot blood sprayed across her face, mixing with sweat and sand until she could barely see.

Another came. She killed him too. And another.

An arrow took her to the side.

It punched through the gap between her breastplate and backplate with a sound like a branch snapping, and at first she couldn’t keep focus on the feathers of its end swimming at the sides of her vision. The Swordswoman looked down, almost curious, and saw the shaft protruding from just below her ribs- not deep enough to be fatal, angled wrong to hit anything vital.

Just a scratch, she thought distantly.

Though the pain felt wrong. Her fingers began to tingle, then her arms.

Poison.

The realization came even as her legs began to weaken. She gripped Viola's mane, trying to steady herself, but the mare was already panicking- surrounded by screaming men and dying horses, the scent of blood thick enough to taste. A Tudor soldier lunged at her stirrup. The Swordswoman moved before she could think. Her body knew the dance even as her mind began to fog. She launched herself from Viola's back, dagger already in her hand, and landed on the soldier like a hunting cat.

They went down together in a tangle of limbs and steel.

Her dagger found his throat. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood fountained hot and red, and she was already rolling away, already finding her feet, already looking for the next threat. But the whole battlefield had devolved into violent scuffling, no more lines, no more formations, just men killing men in the desert heat while the sun watched with its pitiless eye. She stumbled, caught herself, her free hand pressed against the arrow shaft.

Not fatal, she told herself again. Just need to-

Her vision blurred.

She blinked hard, trying to clear it, and that's when she saw him.

Gennon.

He sat astride a white horse perhaps fifty yards away, surrounded by his personal guard- men in armor so polished it hurt to look at. He wasn't fighting. Of course he wasn't fighting. Men like Gennon never dirtied their own hands. But he was watching, his corpulent face split in something that might have been a smile, and even from this distance she could see the satisfaction in his eyes.

He knew.

The poisoned arrow. The bounty. This wasn't random; This was planned.

The careful control she'd maintained since childhood, the leash she'd kept on her rage, snapped like rotted rope.Her eyes widened, pupils blown with fury and poison and a hatred so pure it burned away the weakness in her limbs.

You.

You touched him. You bought him. You marked him with your filth. And now you think you can kill me?

The Swordswoman's hand found Viola's reins. The mare had circled back, trained for war, loyal beyond reason. She hauled herself into the saddle with strength she shouldn't have had, her vision tunneling until all she could see was Gennon's face.

"Move!" she screamed, and Viola leaped forward.

The battlefield became a blur of blue and red. Men scattered from her path or died beneath Viola's hooves. Her sword was still in her hand- when had she drawn it? The dagger was gone, lost somewhere in the sand and blood. Gennon's guards saw her coming. They moved to intercept, but she was already there, already swinging, and her blade took the first one's head off in a spray of arterial red that painted the desert floor.

The second guard raised his spear. She batted it aside, Viola crashing into his horse, and her sword found his throat.

Twenty yards.

Gennon's smile had vanished. He was shouting something, pointing at her, his face purple with rage or fear or both.

Fifteen yards.

Her vision blurred again. The poison was spreading, turning her blood to ice and fire simultaneously. Her fingers were numb on the sword's grip.

Doesn't matter. Just need to reach him.

Ten yards.

She could see his eyes now. Could see the moment he realized she was going to reach him. Could see him yanking his horse's reins, trying to flee, and the satisfaction of his fear was almost as sweet as the kill would be.

Five yards.

The Swordswoman raised her sword, her arm shaking but her aim true. One more second. One more heartbeat. One more-

She felt herself falling- a long, slow tumble through space that seemed to last forever and no time at all. Felt Viola's warmth disappear. The impact of sand against her armor, but distantly, as if it were happening to someone else. The arrow radiated pain through her entire body, but her adrenaline couldn't believe it.

Guts had seen her fall. Through the chaos of clashing steel and screaming men, through the press of bodies and the spray of blood, he'd watched the Swordswoman topple from her horse like a puppet with cut strings. One moment she'd been a whirlwind of violence, the next- nothing.

"Shit," he snarled, already wheeling his horse around.

A Tudor soldier tried to intercept him. Guts's sword took the man's arm off at the shoulder, armor and all, and he didn't slow down. He reached the Swordswoman's crumpled form in seconds, leaning down from his saddle to grab her by the back of her armor. She was deadweight. He hauled her up with a grunt, draping her across his horse's neck before pulling her against his chest. Her head lolled back, eyes rolling white, and then she convulsed.

Vomit sprayed across his armor flecked with blood.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Guts cursed, but his arm tightened around her waist, holding her upright even as she retched again.

A Tudor soldier charged. Guts's blade caught him in the chest, the impact nearly tearing the sword from his grip. He wrenched it free, blood cascading down the fuller, and kicked his horse forward. The Swordswoman slumped against him, her breathing shallow and rapid. Foam had begun to gather at the corners of her mouth.

Poison, Guts realized. Fuck.

He needed to get her back to the lines, to someone who could tend to her.

"Guts!"

Guts looked up to see the White Hawk riding toward them at a full gallop, his composure that usually dressed him shattered into a look that was unusual for the commander. Griffith's eyes locked onto the Swordswoman's foam-flecked lips, and his face went absolutely white.

"How long?" Griffith demanded, his horse skidding to a halt beside them. His hand was already reaching for her, fingers trembling before he seemed to catch himself. "How long has she been like this?"

"Just now," Guts grunted, adjusting his grip as another wave of convulsions wracked her body. "Took an arrow. Poison, I think."

Griffith's jaw clenched so hard Guts could hear his teeth grinding. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, feral flickered across the White Hawk's face. It was panic, then it was gone, replaced by calculation.

"Casca!" Griffith's voice rang out across the battlefield. "Casca!"

The female commander appeared from the chaos, her sword red to the hilt. She took one look at the Swordswoman and her eyes widened.

"Get her to the medical tent. Now." Griffith's voice rang out, "Tell them it's nightshade derivative. Purple-tipped arrows. They'll know the antidote."

"How do you-" Casca started.

"Now!"

Casca flinched. Guts had never seen Griffith raise his voice like that, not to one of his own. The commander grabbed the Swordswoman from Guts's arms, surprisingly strong despite her smaller frame, and wheeled her horse around. Griffith watched them go, his hand still extended as if he wanted to call them back. His fingers curled into a fist.

"Griffith," Guts said carefully. "You good?"

The White Hawk didn't answer for a long moment. His eyes tracked Casca's retreat with such intensity, it made Guts uncomfortable.

"She wasn't supposed to be near the front," Griffith said quietly. His voice had gone flat, emotionless, but somehow that was worse than the shouting. "Laban's orders were explicit. She was to remain with the nobles."

"Yeah, well, you know her." Guts shifted in his saddle. "Doesn't exactly follow orders when she's got blood in her eyes."

"Who was she going for?" Griffith asked, still not looking at him. "Before she fell."

Guts frowned, thinking back. "Gennon. Surrounded by guards. She went through them like they were paper."

"Gennon." The name came out like a curse. Griffith's hand tightened on his reins until the leather creaked. "Of course."

"You know him?"

"I know what he is." Griffith's eyes finally turned to Guts, and there was something in them that made the swordsman want to take a step back. "And I know he's a dead man."

It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same certainty one might use to describe the sunrise. Griffith looked back toward the medical tents one more time, and Guts could have sworn he saw the White Hawk's equanimity slip just for an instant, just enough to reveal the desperation and possessiveness underneath. Then Griffith straightened in his saddle.

"We end this today," he said, his voice carrying across the battlefield with renewed authority. "No more delays. No more half-measures. Doldrey falls before sunset."

He raised his sword, and the sunlight caught it like a falling star.

"Hawks! To me!"

The Band of the Hawk rallied to his call, and Griffith led them forward with a fury that bordered on reckless. Guts followed, but he couldn't shake the image of Griffith's face when he'd seen the Swordswoman's foam-flecked lips.

That hadn't been the look of a commander worried about a valuable soldier. It looked almost like a man watching his entire future slip through his fingers.

In the medical tent, Casca worked frantically over the Swordswoman's convulsing form, forcing the antidote between her lips while her mind raced with questions she didn't dare ask aloud.

How had Griffith known the poison? How had he known the antidote?

And why had he looked at this woman like she was the only thing in the world that mattered?

Casca's hands were steady as she forced the antidote between the Swordswoman's lips, even as foam continued to bubble at the corners of her mouth. The Midland physicians worked quickly, one checking the arrow wound, another preparing poultices, a third mixing compounds whose names Casca didn't know.

"Will she live?" Casca demanded.

The eldest physician, a gray-haired man with ink-stained fingers, didn't look up from his work. "If the antidote takes hold. The poison is sophisticated, its military grade."

Tudor, Casca thought. Has to be Tudor.

The tent flap rustled. Casca's hand went to her sword instinctively, but it was just an assistant bringing more water. She forced herself to breathe, to focus on the Swordswoman's shallow respirations.

When they all heard steel ringing against steel outside.

Casca's blade was in her hand before the sound finished echoing. She spun toward the tent entrance just as a Tudor soldier burst through, his sword already descending toward the nearest physician.

She killed him before he took two steps.

"Protect the wounded!" Casca shouted, but more soldiers were already pouring in- not the standard Tudor blue, but something else. Mercenaries, maybe, or special forces. Their movements were too coordinated, too focused.They weren't here for supplies or easy kills.

Casca planted herself between the Swordswoman's cot and the attackers, her blade singing as it met theirs. One fell. Two. Three. But more kept coming, and the physicians were screaming.

"Casca!"

Judeau slipped in quick enough to not be identified as the enemy, his knives already flying. Two soldiers dropped with blades in their throats before they knew he was there. He moved to her side, his back against hers, and together they formed a wall of steel around the unconscious woman.

"What the hell is this?" Casca snarled, parrying a thrust aimed at her ribs.

"No idea." Judeau's voice was tight with concentration. A knife left his hand and found an eye socket. "But they're not stopping."

They weren't. Wave after wave of soldiers crashed against them like the tide, and Casca's arms began to burn with exhaustion. Beside her, Judeau's breathing grew ragged.

The physicians weren't so lucky.

The first died trying to shield his supplies- a sword through the back that punched out his chest in a spray of red. The second fell defending the medical instruments, her throat opened by a mercenary's dagger. The third lasted longest, an old man who grabbed a scalpel and actually managed to take one attacker's eye before a mace caved in his skull.

Then it was just Casca and Judeau, standing over the Swordswoman's unconscious form while bodies piled up around them.

"This doesn't make sense," Judeau gasped between attacks. He'd switched to his short sword now, his throwing knives exhausted. "Tudor's main force is engaged with Griffith. Why send this many soldiers after one wounded woman?"

"Bounty," Casca said, though even as she spoke, doubt gnawed at her. "One hundred thousand gold pieces."

"For a mercenary, maybe. But these are organized. Coordinated." Judeau drove his blade through a gap in armor, twisted, withdrew.

Another wave hit them. Casca's world narrowed to the space of steel and blood, to the burning in her shoulders, to the copper taste in her mouth. She lost track of time. Lost track of how many she'd killed. Lost track of everything except the rhythm of survival.

Judeau stumbled.

Casca caught him, her free hand grabbing his collar and hauling him upright even as her sword deflected a blow that would have taken his head. "Stay with me!"

"Trying," he wheezed. Blood ran down his face from a cut above his eye. "Casca... the nobles..."

"What?"

"I saw them. Before I came here." He blocked a thrust, barely, his movements growing sluggish. "Laban's coordinating the cavalry like he's done it his whole life. Lyle's holding the eastern flank. They don't need-"

He had to break off to kill another attacker.

"They don't need what?" Casca demanded.

"They don't need her." Judeau's voice was quiet, almost wondering. "Why would they need the Swordswoman to protect them at all?"

She'd wondered the same thing, had seen the way the nobles moved in battle, the competence they hid behind courtly manners. These weren't soft men playing at war. They knew what they were doing. Another wave crashed against them. Casca's blade was notched now, dulled by constant use. Her arms screamed. Beside her, Judeau was swaying on his feet, his sword tip dragging in the blood-soaked earth.

They couldn't fall.

Because behind them, the Swordswoman lay unconscious and vulnerable, foam still flecking her lips, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps that might stop at any moment. The sun crawled across the sky. Minutes became hours. The attacks didn't stop- they just... changed. Smaller groups now, probing, testing. Casca killed them all. Judeau killed them all. The tent became a charnel house, the air thick with the copper stench of blood and the sweeter smell of opened bowels.

Casca's vision began to blur from exhaustion. Her legs stopped feeling like her own, and felt more like stilts. Her sword felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

"How many?" she croaked.

"Lost count," Judeau replied. He was leaning against a tent pole now, his sword held in a two-handed grip because one arm wasn't working right anymore. "Three waves? Four?"

"More."

They stood in silence, listening to the sounds of battle in the distance. Doldrey was falling- Casca could hear it in the changing timbre of the fighting, the way the Tudor war cries were growing fewer and more desperate.

But here, in this blood-soaked tent, the war continued.

"Judeau," Casca said quietly. "This isn’t normal."

"I know."

"Then why?"

He truthfully didn’t know. He answered with raspy breaths and eyes sinking into the ground. All they knew was this: someone wanted the Swordswoman dead. Gennon possibly but with the tides turning, couldn’t the Tudor abandon him now? Take his money after he’s killed?

Behind them, the Swordswoman's breathing hitched, then steadied. Still unconscious. Still alive fortunately.

"Next wave comes," Judeau said, his voice barely a whisper, "I don't think I can-"

"You will," Casca interrupted. Her grip tightened on her sword. "We both will."

The sun continued its descent. The shadows grew long. And in a tent surrounded by corpses, two exhausted warriors stood guard over a woman whose importance they couldn't fathom, waiting for either rescue or death. Whichever came first. But the victory horn sounded across the desert- a long, triumphant note that seemed to shake the very air. Even from their blood soaked tent, they could hear the roar of Midland knights and Hawks alike, their voice raised in savage celebration.

Judeau's lips pulled into a wry smile, though exhaustion had carved it crooked. "I think... we won."

Casca nodded silently. Her sword was still in her hand. She wasn't sure she could let go of it even if she wanted to.

An hour crawled by like a wounded animal. The sounds of battle faded, replaced by the organized chaos of victory- men shouting orders, horses being tended, the wounded being gathered. But in their tent, time seemed suspended. Casca and Judeau remained standing over the Swordswoman's unconscious form, too tired to move, surrounded by a perfect circle of corpses that marked the boundary of their desperate defense.

The stink of death hung in the air like a physical presence- copper and shit and the sweet rot that came when bodies were opened to the desert heat.

Footsteps approached. Heavy ones.

Guts ducked through the tent flap, his armor still painted with blood that wasn't his. He stopped dead when he saw the carnage, his dark eyes widening as he took in the bodies, the exhausted defenders, the woman who still hadn't woken.

"Fuck," he breathed. "What happened here?"

"Tudor wanted her dead," Judeau said flatly. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw. "Really, really wanted her dead."

"How is she?" Guts moved closer, careful not to step on the bodies.

Casca's jaw tightened. "Holding on by a thread. We don't know. After the third wave, the physicians were..." She gestured at the corpses wearing medical robes. "They were killed."

A heavy silence fell over the tent. Guts's hand curled into a fist, and he had the same look he got before he did something spectacularly violent.

"Third wave?" he repeated quietly. "How many were there?"

"Lost count," Judeau admitted. "Five? Six? They just kept-"

He stopped. They all stopped. Because Griffith had stepped into the tent.

The White Hawk moved with his usual grace, but there was something different about him now. His armor was pristine despite the battle- he'd clearly taken time to clean it, to present the perfect image of victory. But his eyes… His eyes went immediately to the Swordswoman.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Griffith stood at the tent's entrance, absolutely still, his gaze fixed on her unconscious form with an intensity that made the air feel thick. His hand rose slowly, as if drawn by invisible strings, reaching toward her before he seemed to catch himself.

The hand fell.

"Everyone out," Griffith said quietly.

"Griffith," Casca started.

"Out." His voice didn't rise, but something in it made even Guts take a step back. "I need to examine her condition. Alone." Judeau and Casca exchanged glances. Neither moved. Griffith's eyes finally left the Swordswoman, turning to them with a look that was equal parts command and something rawer. "You've done well. Both of you. But I need you to leave. Now."

There was no arguing with that tone. Casca sheathed her sword- finally, gods, finally- and stumbled toward the exit. Judeau followed, leaning heavily on Guts's offered arm. But Casca paused at the tent flap, looking back.

Griffith had already moved to the Swordswoman's side. He knelt beside her cot and his hand- that hand that commanded armies, that had never trembled in battle- shook as it reached for her face. His fingers brushed her cheek with a gentleness Casca had never seen from him.

"Griffith?" she said quietly.

He didn't look up. "Close the flap behind you, Casca."

She did.

Inside the tent, alone with the unconscious woman and the circle of corpses that had tried to take her, Griffith finally snapped. His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing across her foam-flecked lips. Her skin was cold. Too cold. The poison was still working through her system, and without the physicians...

"Don't you dare," he whispered. His other hand found hers, fingers intertwining with her limp ones. "Don't you dare leave me now. Not when we're so close."

She didn't respond. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, each one seeming weaker than the last.Griffith's jaw clenched. His mind was already working, calculating, planning. The antidote had been administered, he'd made sure Casca knew which one before the battle. But without physicians to monitor her, to adjust the dosage… He needed to get her to the capital. But first, he needed to control the narrative. 

The tent flap opened again. Griffith's expression smoothed into perfect neutrality as he turned, expecting Casca or Guts. Instead, Laban stepped through, his armor still bearing the marks of battle. The older noble's eyes swept the carnage, then settled on Griffith with an understanding that went unspoken.

"The others?" Griffith asked.

"Waiting outside. We've secured the perimeter." Laban moved closer, his voice dropping. "The attacks?"

"Coordinated. Professional." Griffith stood, though his hand lingered on the Swordswoman's for a moment longer. "Someone knew exactly where she'd be."

"Well their reach extends far," Laban said carefully.

"The reach ends today." Griffith's voice was ice. "As far as anyone outside this tent is concerned, this was Gennon. His obsession. His hired killers. His final attempt to eliminate a threat."

Laban's eyebrow rose. "Gennon is-"

"Dead," Griffith interrupted. "I made certain of it personally during the assault on Doldrey. Very publicly. Very messily. The story writes itself- a corrupt Tudor king with a grudge, eliminated by Midland's hero."

"And the truth?"

Griffith's smile was a razor. "An attempt to prevent a succession has failed. Again."

"The others don't know," Laban warned. "They suspect something though."

"And they'll continue to suspect nothing more than Tudor aggression and Gennon's personal vendetta." Griffith turned back to the Swordswoman. "The king’s decree was my insurance policy. Keeping her with you, with the other nobles who know, was the only way to keep her alive." Griffith's hand clenched. "But this was too close."

Laban was quiet for a moment. "What do you need?"

"Time. And silence." Griffith looked at the older noble. "Can you give me both?"

"The nobles will hold the line. We've waited this long." Laban's face softened while glanced at her weak form. "She looks like her father, you know. Kael would be proud of what she's become."

"Kael is dead because he tried to protect her from the same forces." Griffith's voice was flat. "I won't make his mistakes."

The tent flap opened again. This time it was Guts, his expression impatient. "Griffith, the men are asking about her. What do I tell them?"

Grifith turned, his posture shifting from the possessive guardian to the concerned commander in a heartbeat.

"Tell them that Gennon sent assassins. Even in death, his obsession with destroying those close to me continued. But they failed." He gestured to the circle of corpses. "As you can see."

Guts frowned. "The fat bastard she was going after?"

"The same. I killed him myself during the assault." Griffith's smile was cold. "He won't trouble anyone again."

Outside, Casca stood with Judeau, both of them leaning against each other for support. She could hear Griffith's voice through the tent fabric, explaining about Gennon, about obsession, about hired killers.

It made sense.

She remembered a balcony. Before Doldrey. She'd been looking for Griffith to deliver a message and had found him instead with Gennon- the nobleman's hand on Griffith's shoulder, too familiar, too possessive. She'd retreated before being seen, but the image had stayed with her. Griffith had slept with him. She was certain of it. Had sold himself for funds, for influence, for whatever the Band needed. And now Gennon was dead, and his "obsession" with the Swordswoman was the explanation.

But she said nothing. Because Griffith was her commander, and if he said it was Gennon

…then it was Gennon.

Inside the tent, Griffith returned to the Swordswoman's side. His hand found hers again, hidden from view by the angle of the cot.

"Soon," he whispered, so quietly that even Laban couldn't hear.

But the words were swallowed in the air anyway, unspoken but absolute. The Swordswoman's fingers twitched in his grip- just barely, just enough to send hope surging through his chest. She was still fighting.

Good.

He'd taught her that, after all.

To never, ever stop fighting.