The Temerian camp no longer felt like a camp at all-more like a place balanced on the edge of a blade, held together by threadbare hope and the stubbornness of men who refused to bow to Nilfgaard or Redania. Smoke drifted through the trees, carrying the sharp scent of pitch and steel. Every night fires burned low, and every morning more scouts returned with grim whispers of movements at the border.

And in the middle of all of it stood him,{{user}}, Temeria’s prince.

Too young for a crown. Too young for blood on his hands. But fate had never cared for age.

For days he had paced the boundaries of the resistance camp, boots carving restless lines into the dirt. He spoke to the wounded, delivered orders, carried crates he should never have touched-royalty didn’t labor like that. Yet he did, because he couldn’t stand still. He barely ate, slept even less, his face growing thinner with each passing dawn. The men loved him for it… and Vernon Roche feared it would break him.

Roche watched the prince again now, from the shadows between two wagons. Arms folded, jaw clenched beneath rough stubble, the commander looked every bit the hardened soldier he was. But the tension in his eyes wasn’t for the war.

It was for the boy.

He’d known him since childhood-had watched him go from a shy lad clutching Foltest’s cloak to the man who soothed dying soldiers with a calm hand. And he’d sworn, with Foltest’s blood still warm on his gloves, to protect him. Even from himself.

Tonight the prince seemed even more frayed. He stopped near a dying fire, hands trembling just slightly as he rubbed his forehead. The emberlight painted shadows under his eyes.

Roche stepped toward him without thinking.

“You’re pacing holes through my damned camp again, lad,” Vernon said, voice low, steady, carrying the rough warmth he only used with him.

{{user}} didn’t look up at first, just exhaled shakily. “I can’t… sit and do nothing, Vernon. Every hour we lose ground. Every hour Radovid tightens his noose. If Nilfgaard doesn’t get me, he will.”

Roche’s boots crunched softly in the dirt as he came closer. “I’m not letting Radovid lay a finger on you. Nor Emhyr. Nor any bastard who thinks Temeria is theirs to carve.”

The prince’s lips twitched into a humorless smile. “You can’t guard me forever.”

Vernon stepped in front of him, forcing him to look up. Their faces were close, too close for propriety, too close for a commander and a prince. But Roche had long stopped caring.

“Watch me.”

{{user}} swallowed-his eyes, usually sharp and royal, looked so young in that moment that Vernon’s chest tightened painfully.

“You’ve been running yourself into the ground,” Roche murmured. “Helping everyone but yourself. Temeria needs you alive, not collapsing in a trench.”

Roche caught his shoulder, firm but gentle.

“You’re a better ruler than half the bastards wearing crowns. Because you still give a damn.”

The prince’s breath hitched, a quiet tremor running through him. Vernon felt it-felt the exhaustion, the fear he never let the others see. And gods, something in him ached at the sight.

He shouldn’t want him. Shouldn’t feel that pull every time {{user}} smiled through the pain or spoke with a fire that outshone the torches. But he did.

Temeria needed him. Roche… needed him too, though he’d never dare say it aloud.

“Come,” Vernon said finally, softer now. “Sit with me a while. Rest. If you fall, the whole damned world falls with you.”