"My lord?"
The voice is familiar but wrong—raw with exhaustion, stripped of its usual crisp military tone.
Two figures emerge from behind a partially collapsed pillar, and the sight stops me cold.
Emir and Zoran. Together. Both looking like they've been through the apocalypse and come out the other side held together by sheer stubbornness and spite.
My Shadow General, who maintains his appearance with religious dedication, who treats his uniform like a sacred text that must be followed to the letter, who has never—in decades of service—appeared before me looking anything less than impeccable...
He looks like he's been through a war. Multiple wars.
His immaculate military uniform, usually pressed so sharply it could cut glass, has been replaced by battered battle armor that's seen better decades. The black plate is dented, scorched, and patched in a dozen places with mismatched metal. Blood—some fresh and red, some dried to brown or black—covers the left side of his face in patterns that suggest he's been wounded, healed, and wounded again repeatedly. His right arm hangs at an odd angle, clearly broken and splinted with what looks like a broken sword and torn cloth.
But it's his eyes that truly tell the story.
Emir's eyes, usually sharp with careful assessment and unwavering loyalty, are soulless. Exhausted beyond measure. Haunted by things I suspect have very little to do with physical battles and everything to do with losing people he couldn't save.
I know that look. I see it in the mirror every morning.
Zoran stands beside him, and if possible, he looks even worse than when we left him bleeding out on the healer's table. He's upright—which is more than I expected—but leaning heavily on a cane, his golden Light Court beauty dimmed by what must have been weeks of brutal recovery. A fresh scar cuts across his jaw, and his usually pristine posture has been replaced by the careful movements of someone whose body still remembers being torn apart.
But there's something different about him too. Something harder. The soft scholar who used to flinch at violence has been replaced by someone who's clearly seen—and dealt—his share of death in the past months.
Before I can speak, Banu makes a small, broken sound. But she doesn't rush to Emir—she freezes, her wings going completely still, her lavender eyes wide with something like fear mixed with longing and guilt.
Emir's gaze shifts past me, and the moment he sees her, his entire body goes rigid. For three heartbeats, he just stares, as if he can't quite process what he's seeing. Then his carefully maintained composure shatters completely.
He crosses the distance between them in three long strides despite his injuries, his good arm reaching for her while his broken one hangs useless at his side.
"You're alive," he breathes, his hands hovering over her face, her shoulders, as if he can't quite believe she's real. "Gods, you're alive. When you—when she—" His voice cracks. "I thought I'd lost you."
"I'm fine," Banu whispers, but her voice wavers with emotion I've rarely heard from her. "I'm fine, Emir. It wasn't—I didn't mean to?—"
"Shh." His hand finally settles on her cheek, gentle despite the violence evident in his battered armor. "I know. I know itwasn't you." His thumb brushes away her tears. "Are you hurt? Did they—did anyone?—"
"I'm okay," she says, her small hands coming up to grip his wrist as if anchoring herself. "I promise. Just... tired. And I'm so sorry. What happened to Nesilhan, I never meant?—"
"Not your fault," he says firmly, his eyes searching her face with desperate intensity. "None of it was your fault." He pulls her closer, carefully, as if she might shatter. "When I heard what happened, that you'd been taken, replaced..." His jaw tightens. "I've been looking for you for months. Three expeditions into the Grove, and every time?—"
He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to. The exhaustion carved into every line of his face, the wounds, the desperate relief in his eyes—it all tells the story of a man who thought he'd failed to protect someone precious.
Banu's wings flutter once, weakly, before she lets herself lean into him. “You didn’t give up on me," she whispers. "You kept looking."
"Always," he murmurs into her silver hair.
I watch this reunion for a moment, seeing something in my general I've never witnessed before—raw, unguarded emotion. Whatever exists between them runs deeper than I realized.
Meanwhile, Nesilhan has moved past me, her attention fixed on her brother. Zoran meets her halfway, his cane clattering to the ground as she throws her arms around him.
"You're alive," she breathes into his shoulder. "The healers weren't sure—when we left, you were?—"
"Takes more than a poisoned blade to kill me," Zoran says, but his voice is rough with emotion as he holds her tightly. "Though I'll admit, the first three weeks were touch and go. The healers threatened to tie me to the bed if I didn't stop trying to help coordinate the defenses."
"You should have rested.”
"My sister was trapped in a death realm and my realm was burning. Rest wasn't an option." He pulls back to look at her face, cataloging changes with a brother's protective scrutiny. "Are you hurt? Did the Fae Queen?—"
"I'm fine. We're all fine." She glances back at me, and something complicated passes between us. "More or less."
