The northern border was nothing like I remembered. The wind was sharp enough to flay skin from bone, and the land stretched out in gray desolation beneath a sky bruised with storm clouds.
We rode at a punishing pace, stopping only when our horses could go no farther. Damien barely spoke. His jaw stayed clenched, eyes scanning every ridge and shadow. But I saw it—the tremor in his hand, the tension in his spine.
He was afraid. Not of war.
Of losing again.
We arrived at Gareth's camp by moonlight. The sentries recognized Damien at once, ushering us through snow-caked tents and half-frozen paths.
Gareth lay in a canvas-walled infirmary, his right arm bound in bloodstained bandages.
When he saw me, he smiled through the pain. "So you came back from the dead again."
"Seems to be a habit," I replied.
His gaze shifted to Damien, and for a long moment, neither man spoke. Then Gareth nodded.
"We need all the fire you have left, Drake."
Damien's voice was low. "You'll have it."
For the next week, we rebuilt the war machine.
Damien took command of strategy and morale. I worked with the medics, tending to wounds and calming frightened boys who were too young to shave, let alone die.
Every night, Damien and I collapsed into a shared cot. We spoke little. Our fingers would find each other under the blankets, and that was enough.
Until the eve of battle.
He found me sitting alone by a fire, staring at the flames.
"You've changed," he said softly.
"So have you."
He sat beside me. "If I don't survive this..."
"Don't."
He turned to me. "You deserve to hear it."
"Then tell me after you live."
He smiled faintly. "Stubborn."
I took his hand. "Promise me you'll return."
"If you're waiting, I will."
The battle broke just before dawn.
Steel met steel in the frozen valley. Arrows rained like thunder. Men screamed. Horses fell. The snow ran red.
I lost sight of Damien early, swept up in the chaos. I worked beside the surgeons, blood coating my arms, sewing lives back together with trembling fingers.
Every time the tent flap opened, I looked up.
Not him.
Not him.
Still not him.
Then—
He staggered through the threshold, armor cracked, face bleeding—but alive.
"You promised," I choked.
He collapsed into my arms. "I keep my promises now."
I held him as the battlefield quieted outside, the sky clearing above us.
Victory came at a cost, but it came.
Gareth would recover. The enemy had retreated. And Damien had led them not as a king, but as a man.
As my man.
That night, as we lay under the stars in a cot too small for our hopes, he pressed his lips to my temple.
"Whatever comes next," he whispered, "I'll face it with you."
And I, for once, believed it.