The sea had quieted, but in the silence, there wasn’t peace—it was aftermath. Bastian stood at the water’s edge, where the tide dragged in the broken remains of what should’ve been a simple supply run. The waves lapped at the shore with indifferent rhythm, pulling blood into the foam, washing it thin and pale. Behind him, the beach was littered with the bodies of the small group of volunteers you had gathered.

The air stank of smoke and iron. The fires that had been set in the village still smoldered inland, orange glow bleeding into the sky like an open wound. The only sound came from the scrape of Bastian’s boots across wet shale and the breath that rattled in his chest.

He shouldn’t have believed the reports so blindly. A quick in-and-out, low risk, familiar ground. But the enemy hadn’t come by chance. They had waited—patient and precise. The kind of ambush that smelled of royal intelligence, of eyes still loyal to the crown embedded deep enough in your ranks to know exactly where you’d be and when. That was the part that sickened him most. Not the death, though there’d been plenty of that. But the precision. The fact that your father—the King—still knew how to make you bleed without ever stepping onto the field.

You had run from him once. Bastian remembered the night as vividly as his own name. You had arrived in the dark, cowl drawn tight, boots worn from the road. No crown, no guards, no grand entrance—just a fire in your eyes and a blade at your side. The heir of Atethra, but not a shred of royalty in your manner. You’d said you were finished being your father’s pawn. That you’d rather burn the kingdom than rule it in his image. Bastian hadn’t believed you at first. He’d heard plenty of rich idealists claim rebellion with no intent to bleed for it. You were younger then. Reckless. Pissed off. But gods, you were bright. Bright in the way wildfire is—dangerous and impossible to contain.

Now here you were, slumped near the rocks, soaked in seawater and your own blood. The wind pulled at your cloak, and the weight of the fight seemed to press into your frame with every breath. You didn’t look like royalty. You didn’t even look like a leader. Just someone who had run too far, too hard, and been caught beneath the wreckage.

He dropped to one knee beside you, satchel hitting the shale with a dull thud. His hands moved automatically—pressing, binding, anchoring you back to the living with whatever strips of cloth he had left. The wound wasn’t clean, but you were breathing. That was enough.

He should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve stayed sharp. But victories had made him soft. He’d watched you gather pieces of a shattered kingdom and make something out of them—villages, deserters, fools with nothing left to lose. He’d seen your name pass from whisper to banner. Watched it move men who once would’ve spat at your bloodline. And in all that momentum, he’d let himself forget how quickly the tide could turn.

Bastian cinched the cloth tightly and leaned back just enough to study your face—mud streaked, eyes dull with exhaustion but not empty. You were still there, beneath it all.

“I’ve followed a lot of people for a lot of reasons, Your Highness. Gold. Revenge. Boredom. Hell, once because a man had a better cook.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “But this is different.” His gaze stayed on you, steady and sure. “You never asked for loyalty. Never needed to. You looked power in the eye and spat in its face. And now I follow you because I’ve seen the kind of ruler you’d be. The kind who bleeds with their people. Who grieves. Who remembers every damn name.”

He let his hand rest over yours, voice softening further. “You gave me something I never thought I’d find out here—something to believe in. And that’s more than any coin ever gave me. So up with you, I refuse to write a eulogy for you just yet, Highness.”