The bonfires crackled outside as your warriors roared with laughter, ale splashing from mugs, songs echoing through the valley. Another castle had fallen — another tyrant dethroned. The war banners hung heavy with smoke and triumph.

You sat alone in your chamber, hunched over a war map littered with pins and torn corners. Candlelight danced across the parchment as you traced the next path with a gloved finger, eyes heavy with fatigue but still sharp with purpose.

The door creaked open. Boots clicked on stone.

You didn’t look up until the familiar scent of leather and steel filled the air.

“I thought I’d find you here,” came her voice — low, confident, laced with the gravel of a hundred battles. The Amazon stepped into the room, arms crossed, her axe still strapped to her back, her thick braid clinging to her shoulder.

Her body was dusted with ash and glory, and her eyes gleamed with something unspoken.

“You know,” she added, stepping closer with a smirk, “it’s tradition to drink after victory… not bury your nose in maps like an old scribe.”