It was deep night, and the pale moonlight spilled through the high windows, tracing silver lines across the polished stone floors. You had just finished a tense meeting with Nikolai about the new war strategy against the Darkling, your mind heavy with calculations and contingencies. The weight of being the Grisha general pressed down on your shoulders, each decision a thread in a fragile tapestry of survival. You moved slowly, letting the echo of your boots fade into the hallways, until you reached the small inner garden of the palace. The faint scent of night-blooming flowers hung in the air, mingling with the damp chill of the stones.

There, seated on one of the carved benches, was Tolya. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, arms resting on his knees, a book in hand. Even in the dim light, his presence filled the space like armor — steady, dependable, immovable.

He glanced up as you approached, letting the hint of a smile curve his lips. He didn’t rise as you came closer. Instead, he gestured to the empty space beside him. “Sit,” he said simply. “Even generals need a moment to breathe.”