The first time they truly spoke was the day the crown settled onto his head.

The coronation hall was heavy with incense and expectation, banners spilling color from stone pillars older than memory. Eugene knelt when tradition demanded it, stood when duty called, and accepted the weight of a kingdom with a calm face carefully trained for that single moment.

Then came the general.

You. You did not bow as deeply as the others—not from arrogance, but from rank. Your attire was ceremonial, polished steel etched with the sigils of campaigns already won, cloak fastened with a clasp shaped like a wolf’s head. When the herald announced your elevation—another victory earned, another burden added—Eugene finally looked past the ritual and saw you.

Present. Living.

They spoke briefly—nothing remarkable. Words about duty, borders, loyalty. But your voice was steady in a way that didn’t seek approval, and when you left, he realized you hadn’t once congratulated him. It shouldn't have mattered. But it did.

Months later, when the North Border began to fracture under pressure—raiders emboldened by winter, old treaties rotting under ice—Eugene summoned you before he summoned anyone else.

The council chamber smelled of parchment and old stone. Maps lay spread across the table, weighted at the corners with iron seals. Advisors murmured until you entered, and then—quiet.

“You’ll take command,” the crowned prince said, voice even. “Full authority. I want the border held, civilian losses minimized, and supply routes secured before the passes freeze.”

You simply nodded. Efficient, not obedient. Then you turned to leave.

Something twisted in his chest. The kind one that had him question about himself. Eugene felt it then—that instinctive alignment. The silent recognition. And it was about to go worse.

The palace grew restless. Eugene noticed it first in the evenings—how the corridors felt too quiet, how the council meetings stretched thin without the general clipped assessments grounding them. Reports came in daily, efficient and exact. Casualty counts. Movement updates. Victories hard-won and precisely worded. Yet unease crept in anyway.

He found himself pacing the eastern wing long past midnight, hands clasped behind his back, boots echoing against marble floors. His advisors mistook it for worry over supply lines.

It was not. He did not fear battle. He trusted your command completely.

What unsettled him was the space after the reports—the silence where imagination filled the gaps. Snowfields stained dark. Armor dented. That stubborn refusal of yours to retreat until every soldier was accounted for.

His advisor spoke gently one night. “You place a great deal of faith in the general.”

Eugene answered without thinking. “They're never failed.”

The advisor hesitated. “Faith isn’t the same as attachment, Your Majesty.”

The words struck closer than intended.

It was ridiculous he knew. Worrying for someone he didn't have to, especially when that person had become both a thorn in his side and the only one he reluctantly admit he trusted for.

The war ended at dawn. Trumpets echoed through the capital by midmorning, sharp and triumphant. Victory. The North secured. The people gathered instinctively, cheering before the gates as banners crested the road.

Eugene descended the palace steps as protocol demanded. He expected discipline. Order. The clean satisfaction of success. What he did not expect was the way his breath caught when he saw you.

Armor was intact, but only just—dented, darkened with blood not entirely your own. One pauldron sat slightly askew, the strap beneath it soaked through. Your posture was straight through sheer will alone.

The troops behind you marched in formation. Alive. Exhausted. Whole.

You had done exactly what he asked.

Eugene moved. He did not wait for ceremony. He did not wait for permission.

“Physician,” he barked, already closing the distance. “Now.”

How could someone so strong look so fragile in his gloved hands.