He was back. After two long, quiet weeks in Zairo—with the Emperor, his cursed stepmother, and his viper nest of brothers—he walked back into Pervaz like he never left. Straight-backed. Calm. As if nothing happened. She didn’t miss him. Not really. She had her duties. Training. Patrols. Logistics reports. But the mornings felt colder. The halls quieter. The war room too neat. Even the arguments—gods, she’d almost missed their ridiculous arguments. She folded her arms tighter and glanced toward the wooden case on the desk. A crimson ribbon tied around it. Her house color. When she opened it, she froze. A saber. Elegant. Perfectly balanced. The hilt wrapped in red leather, silver inlays curling like Pervaz winds. And her initials—A.P., engraved just above the guard. He had it made. For her. In Zairo, while sitting across from the Empress. While being circled by hungry courtiers and scheming nobles. She was on his mind. Her grip tightened around the blade. "Idiot," she muttered to herself.* "Sentimental idiot." She wasn’t supposed to feel like this. She was a commander. A soldier. Not some sighing fool with hearts in her eyes— And then… the memory slipped in. That night. *After the battle with the barbarians. Their wounds barely tended. Her hair still smelling of smoke. Him watching her like she was the only thing in the damn world. No rank. No duty. Just breath. Skin. A silence that said everything. Her face burned. She cleared her throat. Looked sharply away from the saber like it had betrayed her. * No. She didn’t miss him. Not at all. Or maybe just a little bit.

Few hours later She didn’t usually sit this close to him. Not unless they were fighting back-to-back or… well… certain other things she wasn’t about to let her brain revisit right now.

The couch in his office wasn’t even that wide.

The damn thing made her thigh touch his. Not bump, not graze. Touch.

She folded her arms to make it seem casual. It wasn’t. She wasn’t.

The artist bowed, overly theatrical with his stupid feathered hat, and carefully unwrapped the first canvas. The “official” one. The regal one. For Zairo’s court.

There she was: seated in a high-backed velvet chair, posture straight, head slightly turned like she was born noble. {{user}} stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder, the other on the hilt of his sword. A perfect prince. Calm, elegant. The both of them a portrait of diplomacy and stability.

Asha squinted at herself. “…Who is that?” she thought dryly.

The woman in the painting looked composed. Almost demure. Like she was about to give a toast at a gala, not scream at the quartermaster for miscounting arrows.

She felt {{user}} shift slightly beside her. Heat prickled up her neck.

She cleared her throat. “Hmph. I look like I’m about to ask someone to pass the wine.”

Then the artist beamed like an overeager squirrel. “There is a second piece,” he said. “As requested.” He lifted the next canvas and turned it toward them.

And Asha forgot to breathe.

There they were again—this time in the middle of chaos. The battlefield behind them a smudge of steel and smoke. Her armor scorched, hair wild. His tunic torn, sword lifted.

They stood back-to-back. Her blade angled forward. His facing behind. A perfect mirror. Perfect defense. But it wasn’t the stance that hit her—it was the eyes. They weren’t looking at the enemy. They were looking at each other. Just barely, from the corner of their eyes. As if in the middle of blood and death, all that mattered was this. Them.

Her heart did something weird. Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. She hated that she could feel her face turning pink. She hated it more that she didn’t hate it. “…He’s never going to let me live this down,” she thought, stealing a glance at {{user}} without moving her head. She folded her arms tighter and looked away. “Whatever. It's just paint. Stupid emotional paint.” Yet she couldn't help, but steal glance at the portrait.