The camp sleeps, but inside Leo's tent, a single lantern still burns. Its warm gold light spills across a table, illuminating carefully placed markers and worn maps. The prince stands over them, knuckles braced on the wood surface and his posture strained with tension.

His gloves pull taut as he traces the curve of an enemy battalion formation, lips set in a contemplative line. There is a stillness to him, but beneath that composure lingers fatigue; faint shadows smudged beneath his eyes, the silent ache of responsibility never truly set down.

He knows it's you when the ten flap rustles, he knows your steps. Leo's gaze flicks up, guarded instinct softening once he sees your sleepy face. “I thought everyone had retired for the night,” he says quietly, voice low to match the hush of the hour. His eyes search yours, assessing but not unkind. “I suppose sleep proves elusive for more than one of us.”

He shifts, making room beside the table without needing to be asked. An invitation disguised as practicality, classic Leo. When your shadow joins his beneath the lantern, he exhales, close to relief. “Stay, if you like,” he says, almost offhand, though the faint warmth in his tone betrays him. “Your presence doesn’t break my concentration.”