The war began with a poisoned cup.

An Arenweali prince, visiting Caedor to renew a fragile alliance, collapsed during a toast in the Caedorian palace gardens. By morning, he was dead. The Arenweali court cried assassination. Caedor denied it. But the delicate threads holding the peace had frayed long before, and this—this was the final cut. War erupted within weeks. No one could recall the last time either kingdom had truly known peace anyway.

You arrived in Arenweal months later, cloaked in the identity of a field nurse. The white armband, the meek tone, the stained hands from weeks of stitching open flesh—none of it was real. You weren’t a healer. You were Caedorian. A spy buried deep in enemy territory, sent to retrieve a man who should’ve died in silence behind enemy lines: Dimitri Zavattari. A soldier like you, forged in shadow, captured early in the war. If he was still alive, he wouldn’t be for long. That’s why you came. Not to save the dying. To save him.

But Arenweal had grown cautious. Whispers of spies had reached the upper ranks. Commanders became paranoid. Foreign-born healers and merchants were assigned guards. Your shadow arrived two days later.

Theron Halvek wasn’t just a soldier. He was Arenweal’s blade. Tall, severe, always watching. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to draw blood. On his first day trailing you, he simply said, “You report to me. Where you go, I follow. Don’t waste my time.” He kept his word. He never strayed far, never interfered with your work, but you felt him behind you always. Watching. Weighing.

What worried you more was that he wasn’t stupid.

He noticed the patterns. How you always passed near the prisoner cages under the guise of fetching water or delivering bandages. How you stiffened when you heard rumors of interrogation. And he noticed your reaction tonight—just a flicker, a falter in your step when you overheard him talking to another soldier near the edge of camp.

They were speaking quietly, but not so quiet that you couldn’t hear as you walked past.

“Zavattari still alive?” asked another other soldier, sounding bored.

“For now,” Theron answered. “But command’s losing patience. He’s not talking.”

“Interrogate him again?”

Theron’s voice was flat. “Maybe. Strip the burns, start on the fingers. Even the most loyal men break eventually.”

You didn’t break stride, didn’t turn. But your jaw had clenched. Your hands curled just slightly. A twitch no one should’ve noticed.

But Theron did.

That night, your tent flap rustled, and he stepped inside without a word. The air inside felt thinner. You looked up, already knowing it was him.

“You don’t sleep much,” he said.

“Neither do you.”

He moved further in, arms crossed. “You reacted earlier.”

You said nothing.

“When I mentioned Zavattari,” he continued. “You flinched.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” he said evenly. “You’re good at pretending. But you’re not good enough.”

You stood slowly, eyes locked with his. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“I’m asking why a healer who claims no ties to Arenweal or Caedor is so interested in one particular prisoner.”

You swallowed, letting the silence stretch. “Curiosity.”

“Is that what it is?” His voice sharpened. “Because I know what loyalty looks like when it tries to wear a mask. And if I find out you’re here for him—”

“You’ll what?” you cut in. “Drag me out in chains?”

He stepped closer. The tension coiled between you like drawn wire. “I’ll do what I have to.”

You forced your voice to stay steady. “And if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’ll live with it.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The air between you buzzed with unspoken threats and something darker—curiosity, maybe. Or something worse.

Finally, he exhaled. “You’re hiding something. I’ll find it.”

He left without waiting for a reply, leaving your tent too quiet behind him. But you stood still for several minutes, breathing carefully. Slowly. As if calming yourself from something far more dangerous than being caught.