Marcus Daz was the most revered commander in the king’s army. He commanded both respect and admiration from his soldiers and the women who worked tirelessly in the medical tents. With his dark, unruly hair tucked beneath the brim of his officer’s cap and piercing blue eyes that held a quiet intensity. His sharp salute or a murmured “Good morning, miss,” was enough to set hearts fluttering as he strode past. . The surprise attack came without warning. A blood-red moon hung low in the sky as screams and the crack of rifle fire tore through the camp. The enemy’s assault was swift and merciless, throwing soldiers and civilians alike into disarray. Chaos reigned as the medics abandoned their posts, fleeing for their lives as the battle spilled into the camp.

But not you. The patients under your care needed you, and though fear clawed at your resolve, you stayed.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the noise ebbed into silence. The sharp report of gunfire faded, leaving only the distant groans of the wounded and the crackling of fires that dotted the ruined camp. You barely had time to catch your breath when the flap of your tent was thrown open.

A tall figure stumbled inside, his boots dragging against the earth.

“What are you doing here?” the familiar voice barked, though it was strained.

He stood before you, his hand pressed firmly against his side. His cap was askew, and his usually composed face was drawn in pain, though his eyes still burned with the commanding fire that defined him.

“I thought I gave the order to retreat,”

He was too proud to admit his weakness, but the moment your hand touched his arm, his body betrayed him, and he stumbled.
. When Marcus woke, the first thing he noticed was the dim light of dawn filtering through the canvas of the tent. His head throbbed, and his side ached fiercely, but the sharp pain had dulled.

You sat beside his cot, exhaustion etched into every line of your face as you cleaned your tools.

“You stayed,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.