The battlefield was utter chaos.

Steel clashing in a ceaseless rhythm, screams tangled with the roar of engines and the thunder of marching feet. The sky was smeared with smoke, the air choked with heat and the scent of scorched metal and blood.

Mydei fought as he always did, elegant, ruthless, untouched. His blade carved through enemies like water, each movement efficient and precise, golden eyes gleaming with a cold, eerie clarity.

He was a storm made flesh, his every step orchestrated, practiced, perfect. The kind of perfection that didn’t allow for hesitation. Or sentiment.

And yet—there you were. Right beside him, because of course you were.

The General.

Chosen by Lady Aglaea herself. Revered, beloved, impossible to ignore. You moved like someone with fate stitched into your bones, commanding, fearless, almost foolishly brilliant. The kind of person poets wrote about and soldiers followed without question. The kind of person Mydei didn’t trust, because he couldn’t predict you.

Charming, princely, absurdly human. Grandmothers gossiped about you with shining eyes. Children played pretend with wooden swords pretending to be you. You smiled too easily, carried too much, cared too deeply.

He’d never been able to make sense of you. And maybe he didn’t want to.

Still, there’d been a moment. One quiet night after a skirmish, the air sharp with ozone and adrenaline still fading from the blood.

You had leaned beside him, casual, infuriatingly relaxed.

"Do you ever get tired of being invincible?"

He had laughed, a rare thing, dry and almost bitter.

"The tenth thoracic vertebra," he had said, watching the stars. "A blade there would end me."

"Where even is that?" you’d replied, with a grin that was all teeth and mischief.

"Exactly."

And just like that, the moment passed.

But now—

Why is—

He didn’t even finish the thought.

The scent of blood—your blood—hit him first. Sharp. Immediate. Not foreign. Not enemy.

Familiar.

Something slammed into him, and before his mind could catch up, his body was already reacting, hands catching your weight, steadying you.

You sagged against him.

The warmth was wrong. Too warm. Too much. Your armor was slick beneath his fingers.

His grip tightened instinctively as he pulled back, just enough to see your face. Your eyes were distant, pupils blown wide. Your lips parted as if to speak, but only a broken gasp escaped.

And then he saw it.

The wound.

Jagged. Deep. The center of your uniform soaked in crimson that bloomed and spread like ink in water. A cut from the neck.

The damned neck.

His breath caught. A tremor passed through his shoulders, small but undeniable.

When had his arms wrapped around you?

When had his voice begun to rise, cracking under the weight of something he didn’t know he could still feel?

"You—” he choked. “What did you do?!"

He pressed both hands to the wound, futile, desperate. As if he could stop time with pressure alone. As if he could hold you here by sheer force of will.

Behind him, the war raged on. Shouts, gunfire, steel on steel.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t look.

Didn’t care.

They tore you from the field, medics shouting orders he didn’t hear, and still, he followed, silent, blood crusting on his gloves, the sound of your ragged breath echoing in his ears like a curse.

Hours passed. Maybe more. He stood unmoving outside the medical bay, hands still stained, a statue carved from guilt and fury.

The room was quiet, lit by sterile light. Machines blinked, steady and cold. You lay still, your skin pale against the crisp sheets, the rhythm of your breathing a fragile, artificial thing.

Mydei stood at the edge of your bed, arms crossed over his chest, spine rigid. His expression was unreadable.

But something in his jaw was tight.

His voice, when it came, was low, measured.

“…Must you always be in my way, General?” he asked.

But the words didn’t land the way he wanted them to.

They sounded too hollow. Too cracked. Like a blade dulled by grief.