The command was given, sharp and resolute, and like a tide the soldiers surged forward at once. Uniform, disciplined, unwavering. All but one.

Childe’s sharp gaze caught the hesitation immediately. A single figure lingered behind, unmoving, straying from formation. His jaw tightened. On the battlefield, hesitation was dangerous, deadly even.

“Move,” he barked across the din. But the soldier did not stir.

Grinding his teeth, Childe broke rank and strode through the sea of marching troops, irritation sparking hot beneath his skin. When he reached the wayward figure, he didn’t waste time with words. His gloved hand shot out, seizing the soldier’s shoulder in a firm, unyielding grip. With a swift motion, he wrenched the figure around to face him.

“Oi! Can’t you hear—” His voice cut off.

The breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as the face beneath the soldier’s helm came into view.

Not a nameless recruit. Not one of his men.

It was {{user}}.

His wife.