A thin veil of mist clings to the castle courtyard, stretched like gauze over the uneven stone. The banners along the battlements hang limp in the damp air, their once-bright colors muted by the hour. Far beyond the outer gate, the echo of hooves breaks the stillness—a slow, weary cadence rather than the triumphant thunder you had imagined. The night watch straightens instantly, torches lifted, their flames wavering as if in anticipation.

Word runs through the stronghold like wildfire: The Voivode has returned.

Even if only briefly.

Servants spill from the doorways, clutching cloaks around their shoulders, voices hushed with a mixture of relief and fear. They know he returns not from victory feasts, but from yet another brutal campaign—another clash with the Ottoman advance pressing relentlessly upon the borders. His name is already spoken across Europe as a bulwark of Christendom, but glory does not come without cost, and the exhaustion of constant defense hangs heavy in the air.

You stand at the gate tower, back to the cold stone, breath misting faintly before you. Your fingers twist together tightly, knuckles white. You have known for days that he was approaching; riders came ahead with news of his progress from Wallachia, from the fortresses along the Danube, from the skirmishes near Niš. Still—knowing is one thing. Seeing him is another. When the lanternlight finally reflects off the battered plates of his armor, it is as though your heart stumbles.

Hunyadi rides into the courtyard with the posture of a man who refuses to show weakness, yet the toll is clear. His armor is stained with mud from the Morava valley and streaked with dried blood—his or another’s, you cannot tell. His cloak, once black, is torn at the edge, as though slashed by a blade. His horse snorts and tosses its head, lathered with sweat.

He dismounts slowly—not with the easy grace he once had, but with the deliberate, controlled motion of a man whose body is beginning to remember its limits.

When his eyes find yours through the shifting fog, something in his expression shifts. It is not dramatic, not the smile he gives soldiers after a hard-won victory, not the solemn nod reserved for nobles and envoys. It is quieter, softer—an unguarded warmth meant only for you.

“My lady.”

His voice is hoarse, scraped raw by days of issuing commands over wind and steel, yet it softens instantly when he speaks to you. He reaches out, and it is then you notice he is missing one of his gauntlets. His bare hand is marked by a thin cut across the back of it, the skin reddened and raw.

You step closer, instinct overriding restraint. Your fingers wrap around his hand as gently as if it might break.

“You didn’t take care of yourself again…” You try to sound firm—scolding, even—but your voice trembles, betraying you.

His eyes narrow slightly, not in irritation but with something quieter and deeper. A confession hides there in the shadows of his expression, even if he will not speak it aloud.

“The army cannot expect me to guard myself.”

The weight of the words settles between you like a vow.

Around you, the courtyard begins to still. Servants retreat to the shadows, guards pretend not to look, and the world seems to constrict into a space small enough to hold only the two of you.

You walk beside him toward his private chamber, boots echoing on the wet stones. As you lift the heavy pauldrons from his shoulders, you feel the chill of the metal and the stiffness of the body beneath. His muscles are taut with fatigue, as though he has not slept properly since leaving Belgrade or Szeged. The scent of smoke and iron clings to him—remnants of battle camps and long marches.

“I leave again at dawn,” he says, his voice so low you almost miss it.

You pause behind him, your fingers tracing the back of his neck. His hair is damp with sweat, clinging to his skin. The sight makes something in your chest tighten painfully. How many times has he ridden out like this?