“I’m not entirely sure yet,” I admit. “Still figuring that out. What about you, Lieutenant? Why did you choose this life?”
“Please, call me Rangi.”
I blink, surprised by his offer. I’ve been with this squad long enough to know he doesn’t offer the use of his name lightly. It’s a mark of trust, of closeness—one not easily earned. The invitation lands somewhere low in my chest, unsettling in a way I don’t want to name.
It’s just a name. Nothing more.
Rangi tugs a small thermos from his pack. He pours a small amount of something steaming into the cap and hands it to me.
“In my tribe, warriors have always been the backbone of our community,” he says as I sip the hot, slightly sweet tea. “My father was a warrior, as was his father before him. The markings I wear tell that story.” He shrugs off his jacket and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt to trace a pattern on his forearm. “Each line represents a generation that came before me, each curve a lesson learned, a battle fought.”
I find myself mesmerized by his fingers moving across his skin, following the intricate designs. “They’re beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.
If Rangi is surprised by my comment, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he shifts slightly closer on the log, his voice dropping.
“In our tribe, a warrior earns his markings through deeds of courage, wisdom, and service. Each tells a story.” His eyes meet mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. “What story will your life tell, I wonder?”
“Hopefully something more interesting than ‘royal spare performs duties adequately,’” I say with a self-deprecating smile. “I’d like to make a difference somehow. Not just by cutting ribbons or making speeches, but by actually changing things for the better.”
“And what would you change?”
The conversation has shifted into territory I rarely explore with others, yet somehow, with Rangi, the words come easily.
“I’d like to work to bridge the gap between modernisation and our tribal heritage,” I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “My grandmother was from the northern tribes—she used to tell me stories, sing the old songs. There’s so much wisdom there, so much history that’s being lost as we push forward in the name of progress.” I look into the fire, watching the crackling flames. “I’d like to find a way to honour both, to show that progress doesn’t have to mean forgetting where we came from.”
Rangi is quiet for a long moment, his gaze steady on my face. “That’s a worthy goal.”
Something in his tone makes me look up, finding him watching me with an expression that seems to see beyond the careful composure I’ve perfected over years of public scrutiny.
“What about you?” I ask. “What does Lieutenant Rangi dream of when he’s not terrorizing new recruits?”
His smile returns, softer now. “Peace. A place to call home.” He stretches his long legs toward the fire. “A connection to something—or someone—that transcends duty and obligation.”
The weight of his gaze as he speaks makes my breath catch. There have been moments over the past weeks—a lingering touch during training, a shared glance across the mess hall, conversations that stretch late into the night—a hint of something that has the possibility of being beyond mere camaraderie. But neither of us has dared to cross that line, to acknowledge the current that seems to pull us toward each other despite the numerous reasons we should maintain distance.
“Is it possible to find purpose beyond the roles we’re assigned?”
“I believe so.” Rangi shifts, his shoulder now pressing warm against mine. “The question is whether we’re brave enough to reach for it.”
The air between us seems charged with possibility, with words unspoken but increasingly difficult to ignore. I find myself leaning slightly closer, drawn by a pull that makes the cold mountain air feel suddenly too warm.
“And if reaching for it complicates everything?” My voice has dropped to barely above a whisper.
“The things most worth having usually do.” Rangi’s hand moves to cover mine where it rests on the log between us, his touch warm and certain. “Don’t you agree, Your Highness?”
The way he says my title—soft, almost teasing, transforms it from a formal address into a caress that sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the mountain cold.
“Leo,” I correct, my eyes meeting his. “Just Leo.”
“Leo,” he repeats, as if testing the name on his tongue.
For a suspended moment, the rest of the world falls away—no royal duties, no military hierarchy, no complications or consequences. Just two men beside a dying fire, drawn together by a connection neither of us had expected to find in these remote mountains.
I find myself leaning closer, my heart hammering against my ribs. Rangi’s free hand comes up to my face, his callused fingers gentle against my jaw.
“Leo, I?—”
“Your Highness!”
