You step onto the dusty grounds of the Uruk base, the air heavy with grit and tension, so different from the polished marble halls of the Ministry of Defence. The desert wind tugs at your scarf as soldiers straighten and salute—respect owed not just to your father, the Head General Commander, but also to the man you’ve come for. Commander Luc Moreau. Your fiancé. Bound to you by an arrangement neither of you ever truly welcomed, tied only by your shared devotion to France.

He stands by the tents, his presence magnetic, his voice carrying authority sharp enough to cut through the noise. When his gaze meets yours, it falters for half a heartbeat—surprise quickly concealed beneath practiced composure. You’ve written, pleaded, even sent word through your father himself, urging Luc to return to Paris. To sit across from you, to face the matter that concerns both your futures. Yet he never came.

“Didn’t expect you here,” he says at last, clipped but not cold, something softer buried deep in his tone.

You cross your arms, steady. “Follow me.”

For the first time, Luc doesn’t argue. He follows me to a private camp. And you slap him across the face. Though he's barely phased.

Your hand trembles at your side, not from fear but from the weight of everything you’ve carried—anger, longing, betrayal, duty. He remains steady, unshaken, a commander even here in the face of your rage.