“The council questions your value,” I hear myself saying. “Some want to hand you over to Oryx in exchange for negotiated terms.”
“And you?”
The question hangs between us. She’s not asking about military strategy or political necessity. She’s asking about me. About what I want.
About what she’s become to me.
“I protect what’s mine.”
It’s not the answer I intended to give. Too revealing, too personal. But it’s the truth.
Her eyes widen slightly at the words, and I see her breath catch. For a moment, the space between us is charged with possibility, with unspoken understanding.
Then footsteps echo in the stairwell outside, and the moment breaks.
Hadrun appears in the doorway, his expression blank as he takes in the scene—me kneeling beside her, close enough to touch, speaking in voices too quiet for tactical discussion.
“Warlord. Scout reports movement in the eastern passes. Advance riders, possibly.”
I rise smoothly, stepping back from Zoraya without making it obvious I’m creating distance. “How many?”
“Unknown. But they’re coming fast.”
I nod curtly. “Double the watch on all approaches. I want to know the moment anything moves within sight of our walls.”
“Understood.” Hadrun’s eyes flick briefly to Zoraya, still sitting beside the standard with her needle in hand. “What about the girl?”
“She continues her work. Post guards outside the tower—my most trusted warriors. No one enters without my direct permission.”
“The captains will want to know why she rates such protection when our own warriors?—”
“The captains will follow orders or find themselves reassigned to positions that suit their... concerns.”
Hadrun’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “As you command.”
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. When he looks back, his expression carries something that might be pity.
“You’re walking a dangerous line, Vlorn. Personal attachment in wartime...” He shakes his head. “It never ends well.”
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with Zoraya and the weight of his words.
Personal attachment.
There it is again, the accusation I can’t quite deny. The warning that I’m compromising military necessity for personal desires.
But as I look at Zoraya returning to her work, needle flashing in the silver light of the repaired wards, I realize something.
Maybe personal attachment isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s another kind of strength.
Maybe protecting what matters isn’t compromise—it’s purpose.
For the first time since the bells rang war council, I find myself believing we might survive what’s coming.
If I can hold my fractured command together long enough.
If Zoraya can finish her work in time.
If I can balance the needs of a warlord with the demands of whatever this thing between us is becoming.
