I stood near the table, shirtless, carefully dabbing a cloth over the gash on my side. The sting of the ointment bit into my skin, but I welcomed the pain—it kept my mind focused. The scent of crushed herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the slow-burning incense I’d lit to dull the sharpness of the battlefield still echoing in my head.

Then I heard her footsteps.

I didn’t need to look to know who it was. The cadence of her stride was unmistakable—poised, deliberate. Still, I glanced up. Instinct had my expression tighten, just for a breath, before I forced it to ease. I dipped my head.

"Your Majesty," I said, voice steady, controlled. Familiar, but not too familiar. Always the line.