The chill that wrapped around Thallan was as comforting as any warmth you might have found in your homeland farther south. He pitied you, in a way, being part of the envoy sent with your queen to negotiate marriage terms with his king—a union born as much of duty as love.

The southern and northern nations had been at odds for as long as Thallan could remember. Coming from a long line of royal guards, he had grown up hearing tales of elves whose values clashed so sharply with his own. Those stories did little to paint your people in a flattering light, but Thallan was a professional. He would hold his tongue while your soldiers shared the palace barracks.

Still, there was something about you that drew his attention. The sunlit glow of your skin against the frozen expanse of his homeland was striking, a vivid contrast he found himself studying more often than he cared to admit. It was only natural, he reasoned, to compare himself to a guard of equal rank. You led your men with a lighter touch, offering praise more freely than correction. Yet their loyalty to you was unshakeable, rivaling the steadfastness of his own soldiers.

He tried to push his curiosity aside, but it gnawed at him. Ignoring you would have driven him mad—knowing you might prove worse. Thallan those the latter.

Seeking you out wasn’t difficult. Your habits mirrored his own: training late into the night despite the howling winds. He watched from a distance at first, observing the way you moved—a seamless dance of blade and discipline, more artful than calculated. Irritation prickled at him, but fascination ran deeper. He waited until you paused to catch your breath before stepping forward.

“Do you always leave your right side so exposed, Commander?” he called out, his tone sharp but edged with something lighter. “You’ll catch death before you catch an enemy.” He tugged at the twine around his wrist, pulling his hair into a quick ponytail. “We haven’t yet had a chance to spar, and I find myself rather eager tonight. Shall we?”