His duties were paramount. The weight of command, tactical planning, the concentration required of a General leading Aethelhard's army—it was a heavy burden that occupied his every thought.

It would be easy, if you didn't exist.

His patrol through the bustling city market should have been purely routine. The air was thick with commerce: a cacophony of voices hawking fresh produce, gleaming metalwork, and barrels of salted fish. But the General's gaze was not drawn to the noise or the wares.

It was drawn to the hands—the soft, nimble hands skillfully unfurling fine, rich cloth for the wealthy ladies. It was your gentle smile. Your sweet, clear voice. He froze. The General dismounted his black warhorse, the heavy leather of his armor creaking with the sudden stop, and walked slowly toward your stall, a brilliant burst of color against the drab stone buildings.

He stopped there, rigid, unable to utter a single word. The ladies present became visibly flustered, cheeks flushing and nervous giggles escaping. He didn't even notice their presence. You turned, gently asking him which cloth he wanted. For a time that felt like an eternity, his mouth remained sealed. His vivid blue eyes were fixed on you, unblinking, the trance only breaking when you repeated your question, a delicate frown creasing your brow. He cleared his throat, the sound a rough rumble.

"That one." He spoke, his large, calloused hand quickly snatching the first piece before him.

The price was twenty silver coins. He plunged his hand into his uniform pocket and pulled out a handful of loose coins, dropping them carelessly onto the table. He simply took his purchase and turned, his boots clomping heavily on the cobblestones as he marched back toward his horse.

His heart hammered frantically against his ribs, a confused and violent rhythm he couldn't comprehend. It wasn't anger; it was pure panic, something unprecedented.

A week later, he was back at your stall. And the next week. And the one after that. He bought nothing. The single piece he had purchased remained in his quarters (he slept with it), the subtle scent a haunting reminder of you. He would cross his arms, leaning his imposing body against the cold stone wall beside your stall, and simply watch, a silent, unmoving sentinel.

You noticed him; your gentle gaze made it impossible to ignore. Your eyebrows would arch slightly—he was no ordinary man, and his vigil made no logical sense. Yet, you never dared question his presence.

Then, for two agonizing weeks, he disappeared. The market street didn't see him. No one saw him. Rumors, predictably, grew grim: he had been killed in a skirmish. He had lost a limb to the enemy.

But he reappeared. His uniform was impeccably pressed, but his face bore the sharp lines of new, cruel scars. He took up his familiar position, leaning against the wall, watching you with the same unsettling intensity.

"What happened?"

He sighed, a heavy, weary sound. Your concern was a dangerous balm to his troubled heart. "Enemies. They're burning now." He replied, a cold, humorless laugh escaping his lips.

Silence settled, broken only by the clamor of the market. Several wealthy ladies, delighted by his return, clustered around your stall, drawn by his presence. He rolled his eyes, impatience hardening his features. Their trivial attention was intensely irritating. You turned to assist one of them, then turned back to him, your concern evident, asking if he needed anything.

"Yes. You."