Smoke rolled across the battlefield, thick and bitter. Steel rang against steel somewhere in the distance, but the fight here had already ended. Broken banners lay in the mud, and the ground was dark with ash and rain. Tamsy Caines stood among the ruin, armor scratched, blade still warm in his hand.

A faint movement caught his eye.

Near the edge of a shattered stone wall, someone clung to the crumbling rock, fingers trembling, barely holding on above the drop below. An enemy warrior—his enemy. Armor from the opposing side, torn and stained, yet stubbornly refusing to fall.

Tamsy stepped closer, boots crunching over gravel.

For a moment he simply watched. The wind tugged at his dark hair, and his sharp gaze traced every strained movement, every breath fighting to stay alive. Anyone else would have finished the job. One push. One cut. The war would demand it.

But Tamsy didn’t move.

Instead, he crouched beside the edge, resting his sword across his shoulder, studying the desperate grip like it fascinated him.

A slow, crooked smile tugged at his lips.

“Still holding on,” he muttered quietly.

Rain began to fall harder, making the stone slick, threatening to peel those exhausted fingers away. Yet the enemy warrior refused to let go.

Something in Tamsy’s chest tightened.

Not pity.

Interest.

He leaned forward slightly, close enough to see the fierce determination in those shaking hands.

“Don’t fall yet,” he said under his breath, voice almost amused. “This war just got interesting.”