After the meeting, I returned to my quarters, hoping to get some much-needed rest before the battle. But sleep didn’t come.

  Instead, I y in the dark, staring at the ceiling, repying every word, every decision I had made. Was it the right choice? And if it wasn’t… could I bear the weight of what would follow? The doubt clung to me like a second skin, heavy and suffocating.

  Eventually, I gave up on trying. I rose, slipped on a cloak, and stepped out into the night.

  The air was cool, the kind that quiets the world. Moonlight bathed the camp in silver, casting long shadows across the ground. The stillness helped. It slowed the noise in my head, just enough to breathe.

  As I wandered through the quiet paths between tents, I saw a faint glow ahead—a bonfire. Laughter and voices floated toward me, low and warm, not at all what I expected to hear the night before a battle.

  A group of knights sat in a loose circle, sharing stories, passing around fsks, their armor set aside for once. For a moment, they looked less like soldiers and more like old friends gathered around a campfire on a carefree night.

  I paused, instinctively ready to turn away. My presence would only shatter that peace. They would stand, stiffen, and remember their roles. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want them to stop being human just because I was near.

  But before I could disappear back into the dark, someone noticed me.

  Trevon.

  He stood quickly and stepped toward me, pcing his hand over his heart in salute.

  “Your Highness,” he said, lowering his head with a grin that was more warm than formal. “I greet the Small Sun. May your light and glory continue to shine upon us.”

  As expected, the others began to rise, the mood shifting. I quickly raised a hand. “Please, raise your heads. Cease the formalities,” I said, more softly than I intended.

  A moment of hesitation—then Trevon smiled, and the tension broke.

  “Couldn’t sleep, Your Highness? Or…” he tilted his head slightly, “did we disturb your peace?”

  I shook my head. “No, quite the opposite. I only wandered. The quiet wasn’t helping, and I suppose… I envied the warmth of your fire.”

  Trevon looked at me for a beat, then gestured to the circle. “Then perhaps, just for tonight, you could borrow a little of it.”

  He didn’t say “join us.” He didn’t treat me like a prince who needed to be convinced. He spoke like someone who understood exactly what kind of loneliness a battlefield could bring.

  And for the first time in a long while, I accepted.

  I stayed.

  They didn’t treat me like royalty. Not tonight. Someone offered me a seat; someone else passed me a fsk, which I politely declined. The conversation returned slowly, like ripples settling after a stone. They spoke of small things—training accidents, shared meals, a ridiculous moment when someone mistook a wild boar for a Lunethrian scout.

  I didn’t ugh, not outwardly, but something inside me eased.

  And eventually, one by one, they drifted off—some to their tents, others falling asleep right there by the fire, wrapped in cloaks, heads resting against their gear. The fire dimmed, the embers glowing low.

  Only Trevon remained awake beside me, his gaze turned upward to the stars.

  For a while, neither of us spoke.

  Then, he said quietly, “I was surprised by your decision earlier.”

  I gnced at him. “You disagreed with it?”

  “No,” he replied without hesitation. “I admired it.”

  I looked back toward the fire. “I don’t know if it was the right one.”

  “It was the human one,” he said simply. “Most people in that room forgot what that looks like.”

  His words sat with me, heavier than they sounded.

  After a pause, I asked, “Why did you support me? You didn’t have to. You could’ve stayed neutral.”

  He exhaled softly, resting his arms over his knees.“Because I’ve seen what happens when commanders forget that their soldiers are people. You don’t need to look far—history’s full of victories paid for in lives that never should’ve been lost. Dozens died for someone else’s pride. The battlefield was ours and also our graveyard.”

  He looked away, his voice lower now. “I swore I’d never become that kind of leader.”

  I nodded slowly, understanding too well.

  “Besides,” Trevon added with a small smile, “it’s not weakness to have a heart, even if the court treats it like a fw.”

  “I was never raised to rule,” I admitted, the words surprising even myself. “The Empress made sure of that. I was taught to observe, to endure, but never to lead. My brother was the one she prepared.”

  Trevon turned to me fully now. “And yet, in that war room, everyone looked at you. Whether they wanted to or not.”

  That silence fell again, but this time it was filled with something different. Not of doubt nor pressure.

  Recognition.

  “I hope you don’t disappear after this war,” he said quietly. “The Empire needs more commanders like you.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just nodded.

  And for once, the weight on my shoulders felt… shared.

  I sat in silence, watching the fire flicker and sway, its fmes dancing like whispers of stories long forgotten. The warmth curled around me, quiet and comforting, wrapping me in something I hadn’t realized I needed.

  After a while, I rose to my feet, brushing off my cloak.

  “Thank you, Captain Voschell,” I said, my tone softer than usual. “For the fire… and the company.”

  Trevon looked up at me, his expression open, steady.

  “No problem, Your Highness,” he replied with a small smile. “And if you ever find yourself doubting again… come sit by the fire,” Trevon said with a warm, quiet smile.

  His words lingered long after I left.

  I returned to my tent under a sky still scattered with stars, the embers of the campfire cooling behind me. I y down, but sleep came only in short, shallow bursts.

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