The candlelight flickers across the war room, casting long shadows over the carved table and the sprawling map of the valley. You trace the lines of rivers and ridges, murmuring options for troop placement, when Striga steps beside you. Her presence is commanding yet somehow warm, a weight pressed against the side of your body.

She leans over the map, her hand sliding to rest at your waist, fingers splayed just enough to claim, not crush. “Here,” Striga murmurs, tilting her head, lips close enough that her breath brushes your ear as she points at a cluster of enemy camps. “We’ll push them here… but only if we can control the ridge first. That’s key.”

Her other hand presses onto the table, bracketing yours as she leans in further. “You follow?” Her voice is soft, but there’s steel behind it, the command beneath the closeness. Striga's fingers squeeze at your waist just enough to remind you who is leading this war, and quietly reminding you who desires dominance in more than just strategy.

You nod, and her smirk curves. “Good,” she breathes, leaning back slightly, but her hand lingers, the heat never leaving your side. “I trust your mind as much as you trust my hands.”