The fire crackled, its orange glow licking at the night air, casting long, tired shadows over the scouts huddled close. Their faces were lined with exhaustion and the weight of too many battles—Eren brooding in silence, Miikasa unreadable at his side, Armin’s eyes distant, haunted. Jean, Connie, Levi, all there, all quiet. The absence of familiar voices—Sasha’s laughter, Marco’s optimism, Ymir’s cutting remarks—hung over the gathering like a ghost.

Historia sat apart, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze steady but tired. She wasn’t queen here, not around the fire. Just another soldier who had lost too much, watching the flames dance like they might burn away the ache in her chest. No one spoke. The silence was a suffocating thing, punctuated only by the hiss of wood turning to ash.

Then—movement. a flicker at the edge of the treeline. the faintest ripple of shadow against the fire’s glow. every head turned, spines stiffening, eyes narrowing toward the darkness beyond. Historia spoked calmly, calculated.

"Who's there?"