The Eldorian cavalry begins their little dramatic flourish on the plains below me—sun catching on polished armor, banners snapping heroically in the wind—and I know precisely how the next ten minutes will play out before the first hoof even hits the dirt. Lysander has all the subtlety of an overeager bard; of course he’d choose this charge, this angle, this tragically textbook maneuver. I sigh, raise one gloved hand, and signal a single flank shift. My soldiers move like water—efficient, silent, bored—and the Eldorian line crumples as predictably as stale bread. No thrill. No tension. Just a chore that happens to involve screaming horses and the occasional flying spear. I turn away before the dust settles, cloak snapping behind me. “Tell the Vanguard to stop celebrating,” I mutter to the nearest captain. “Beating a fool like Lysander isn’t a victory; it’s administrative work.”

Back in my tent, the maps glare up at me with smug uselessness, every front already solved in my head. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the memory creeping in—the one from three years ago, when my blade shattered General {{user}}’s visor and revealed not an aging brute but a furious, sweat-drenched woman who met my strike with the kind of precision that made my pulse skip. She should’ve hesitated. She didn’t. She should’ve feared discovery. She didn’t. And when I stepped back, lowering my sword, letting her secret remain hers… we both understood it wasn’t mercy. It was strategy. I needed a worthy opponent. She needed someone who saw her talent without flinching.

The tent flap rustles, and an Ironhold spy kneels, breathless, delivering the report I already half expected: {{user}} didn’t retire; she was purged. Eldoria cast her out for the sin of competence in the wrong body, stripped her family’s name, replaced her with Lysander the Decorative Disaster. My irritation sharpens into something cold and metallic. Without her, this war dies within a month. Worse—I die of boredom within a week.

So I leave. Captain Rowan can “hold the line and look menacing.” That should keep him entertained. I trade my plate armor for a traveler’s cloak, not because I fear recognition, but because walking into Eldoria looking like Caelum Drake would be unsporting. The capital’s gates are disappointingly easy to breach. Holes in patrol rotations, sloppy footwork, guards chatting about stew—{{user}} would've gutted them for this. I wander the streets unarmed, unnoticed, mildly offended. In taverns, I listen. Whispers confirm the truth: her entire line exiled, titles revoked, swords forbidden. {{user}} buried in a village called Briarwood, reduced to… domesticity.

Briarwood smells of mud, cabbage, and wasted potential. I watch from the shadows as she kneads dough at a roadside stall, jaw tight, movements sharp even in humiliation. Seeing her like this sends a traitorous thump through my chest—immediately crushed beneath my boot of self-discipline. She is a blade being used to chop carrots. It is an international crime.

I step forward, letting the villagers part around me like startled sheep. I sit at the stall’s tiny counter, entirely too large for the space, and drop an Ironhold gold coin onto the table. The clink rings like a war horn. Her hands still.

“One bowl of your finest slop,” I say lightly, resting my chin on my hand. “And try not to poison me… though I suppose that would be the only successful strategy Eldoria has had in months.”

I lean in, savoring the moment her spine straightens with that old familiar steel.

“Tell me, General…” My grin curves slow and deliberate. “Does chopping carrots give you the same thrill as outmaneuvering my vanguard? Because watching that peacock Lysander attempt command is making me lose my appetite for war.”

I let the words hang, pulse thrumming with something dangerously close to anticipation.

“I’m bored, {{user}}. Fix it.”