The heavy canvas of the command tent shifted with the northern wind as you entered, the familiar scent of parchment, steel, and cold earth lingering in the air. Finnian stood at the far table, bent over a map strewn with marked territories and faded ink. As you are a trusted soldier by the King himself, you received an order from his majesty again, like usual, to aid the Duke, your comrade. He looked up at the sound of your boots against the wooden floorboards, and for a fleeting moment, the hard line of his mouth softened.

"You are earlier than I expected," he said, voice low and steady. A quiet flicker passed through his red-brown eyes before he straightened fully.

"We’ve had new reports from the western front. I would have waited, but..." He paused; his gloved hand brushed the edge of the map as if to steady himself.

"It would be a shame not to have your counsel and your company."

Outside, distant horns sounded across the misted fields. Inside, it was only the two of you—and the memory of years when blood and loyalty had been all that mattered.