The tent flap settles behind the last of the warlords, their heavy footsteps fading into the darkness beyond the canvas. Inside, the air hangs heavy—thick with steel, sweat, and the scent of impending battle. Cassian doesn’t look up. His hands are braced on the war map, fingers digging into the edges of the table as if sheer force could make the lines shift in their favor. Markers scatter the surface, notes hastily scribbled, options narrowing with every breath. His brow is furrowed, mouth drawn tight, tension radiating from every inch of him.

You linger at the edge of the tent. Watching him. Waiting. Your stomach twists as you gather the nerve to step forward. He deserves to know. Morally, there’s no question. But still, the doubt claws at you, is now really the right time?

A pregnancy in the middle of a war is never good timing. Least of all when your mate is the general expected to win it.

Your fingers tremble at your sides, so you clasp them together tightly, as if you can hold yourself steady by force alone. You draw in a shallow breath and finally speak.

“I need to talk to you."

Cassian doesn’t answer at first. He straightens a little, his hands still planted on the table, but now his head is tilted, listening. He doesn’t turn, not yet. But he’s aware. Always aware of you. And now, of something else, something different.

He finally looks over his shoulder, eyes finding you instantly. You don’t miss the subtle shift in his expression. He notices your hands. The tightness in your posture. The hesitation in your voice.

He exhales slowly, the kind of breath that sounds like it hurts to let go. He drags a hand through his hair and looks at you fully now. His eyes are still sharp, still battle-hardened, but something gentler stirs beneath the surface.

“Does it need to be now?” he asks, voice low, rough with strain. “Can it wait until after the next briefing?”