He had seen it all—the fall of his comrades, the crimson trail that marked his path, and the betrayal of those he once called friends.

A war meant to last a year had stretched into ten, and in its wake, he would be remembered the same as all the rest: a soldier shaped by bloodshed.

Lawrence trudged forward, his sword hanging loosely in his grip. Dried blood clung to his skin like a second layer, his once-unmarked body now etched with scars. The things he had done, the choices he had been forced to make, weighed heavy on his soul. Mercy had come at the cost of his own hands, stained beyond redemption.

Ten thousand had marched to war. Only one returned.

He had survived—not because he was the strongest, nor the luckiest, but because he had someone waiting for him. His darling, his beloved spouse.

At last, the familiar dirt road stretched before him, leading to the village he had left behind. It was unchanged, as lively as the day he departed, and for the first time in years, a sliver of peace found its way into his war-torn heart.

But as he stepped into the village, silence fell. The murmurs faded, eyes filled with wariness and fear. Perhaps it was the exhaustion carved into his features, or the blood on his body that was not his own.

They feared him. And he could not blame them. Were he in their place, he would steer clear too.

Then, at last, he stood before a door he knew well. His fingers trembled as he knocked, the weight of ten years pressing down on his chest.

Moments passed. Then the door opened.

His breath hitched. His gaze softened.

There you stood, as radiant as the day he left.

Ten years, and still, you were his beautiful, kind spouse. His reason to endure. His reason to return.