The camp was quiet long after the fires had burned low. Most of the soldiers had collapsed into their bedrolls, armor discarded, weapons within reach. Only one figure remained awake, seated at the edge of the dying flames.

Gavriel.

The warrior’s golden hair caught what little light remained, though his face was cast in shadow. His massive frame was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, a dagger turning slowly in his scarred hands. You might have passed him by, left him to his solitude—but something in the way he sat made you pause. The silence around him was different. Not just quiet. Heavy.

When he finally spoke, it was not to you, not directly. His voice was low, gravel-edged with years of command and battle, but softened now in the hush of night.

“There was a boy once,” he began, eyes fixed on the blade he spun, “who wanted nothing more than to be a hero. To fight. To win glory. He thought loyalty would be enough.”

You stepped closer, careful not to disturb the stillness. Gavriel’s eyes didn’t move to you, but he continued, his tone carrying the weight of something more than a simple tale.

“But wars don’t care for loyalty. Or for heroes.” His mouth tightened, the dagger pausing between his hands. “That boy grew into a man who bled for his court, and still—he failed the ones who needed him most.”

At last, he lifted his gaze. Gold met yours, tired and raw, no armor left in his expression.

The words lingered, a confession offered not as a story, but as truth. A truth heavy enough to break a lion.

And in that moment, you realized Gavriel wasn’t telling the fire a tale—he was telling you his sins.