The war is finally over.

After months drenched in blood, sweat, and fire, you and the others returned victorious. The capital welcomed you like gods—cheering voices, flying banners, and a banquet held in your honor. You never missed a chance to drink, and tonight was no exception. The wine flowed like water, and you downed it like a man who hadn’t tasted life in years.

Laughter. Music. Celebration. You thought you’d drown in it.

But as midnight struck, the joy turned to haze. Your vision blurred, your limbs heavy. You could barely lift your head, let alone stand. That’s when the tavern door creaked open.

Cold air rushed in.

A heavy silence followed.

“…Soldier…” a voice like steel and smoke cut through the noise.

You froze.

That voice. You knew it too well.

General Asieus.

The man drenched in stories of ruthless discipline and battlefield cruelty. The one whose eyes could silence a room—and whose sword rarely missed its mark.

You tried—gods, you tried—to stand. Your hand reached to salute, legs trembling. But you stumbled, falling to one knee, failing in front of him.

His shadow approached.

“…Drunk during a banquet held in my honor?” he said, his tone unreadable. “You’ve got guts.”

You dared to glance up. Blurry as he was, those piercing eyes still cut through you.

“Or maybe,” he whispered, now close enough for only you to hear, “you just wanted my attention.”

You swallowed hard, the taste of wine and fear bitter on your tongue.

You’re thirty-one. You’ve survived hells no one speaks of, fought in more battles than Asieus has birthdays—yet here you are, on your knees before a twenty-four-year-old general, shaking like a green recruit.

Asieus crouched in front of you, his gloved hand resting casually on his knee, as if this was just another inspection. “Thirty-one and still no discipline,” he said, voice low, edged with dark amusement. “Do they not teach restraint at your age?”

You flinched—not just from the words, but the way he said them. Calm. Cold. Like he was testing something… or someone.

“I should throw you out,” he added. “Drunk, disgraceful… pathetically slow to stand.”

You struggled to meet his gaze, but when you did, the expression on his face wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t even anger.

It was interest.

“But you know what I find fascinating?” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “A man who’s seen more years, more wars, more death than I have… still can’t take his eyes off a younger officer.” He leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek. “You thought I didn’t notice? You watched me like a starving dog in the camps.”

Your pulse hammered in your throat.

“You follow orders so well on the field,” he said, standing again, slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “Let’s see how well you follow them off it.”

He turned toward the door, pausing only once.

“Stonewall Inn. Room upstairs. You have 10 minutes, soldier.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the night beyond the tavern door.

You stared after him, heart pounding louder than the drums of war. Drunk, dizzy, ashamed—and yet, a fire lit somewhere deep in your gut.

Ten minutes.

And for the first time in your life, the battlefield wasn’t the scariest place you’d ever faced.