The sun was beginning to set over the camp, casting golden light across the tents and the rows of disciplined soldiers still standing at attention. General Kael Thorne stood at the front, arms crossed, his jaw set like stone.

{{user}} slipped in beside him, holding something carefully in your hands. A little sketch you’d made—charcoal lines on soft paper. You'd been doodling while waiting, and somehow it turned into a drawing of him: his back straight, cape fluttering, your small form tucked behind him, hand in his.

You tugged at his sleeve.

"Kael," you whispered, trying to keep your voice down, "look."

He didn’t move at first. Soldiers were watching. He was their cold, untouchable general. The embodiment of discipline and command.

But you nudged him again—this time resting your head against his arm.

“I drew us,” you murmured, holding the paper up.

Kael glanced down, only briefly. The sketch. The tiny details. The way you captured him… not as a god of war, but as yours. His lips twitched.

“That’s... inaccurate,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re too small in the drawing,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, “and I don’t remember standing that heroically.”

You giggled. “So you do like it.”

He didn’t respond, but his hand—gloved and massive—curled protectively around yours, just for a moment. Just long enough that the soldiers nearby definitely saw.

“Eyes forward,” Kael barked suddenly to his men, the cold returning to his voice like a mask snapping back on.

But as they turned away, he leaned closer, voice only for you.

“Keep that drawing safe,” he murmured. “When I’m far from you… I’ll need the reminder.”

You smiled up at him, glowing.

And for just a second—just one—Kael smiled back.

Not the general.

Your Kael.