The fire crackled, casting long, flickering shadows across the clearing. Historia sat close to the warmth, her knees drawn up, eyes fixed on the flickering flames, but her attention never strayed far from Pieck. The rest of the Survey Corps—Levi, Mikasa, Armin—exchanged wary glances, hands hovering near their weapons as though the slightest movement could spark chaos.

The fire popped, sparks flying upward, and Historia’s gaze didn’t waver from Pieck. Every flicker of movement, every FAKE smile, made her instincts scream.

"You’ve been… convenient,” Historia said, her tone razor-edged, “but don’t mistake usefulness for loyalty. Every word you say, every move you make—it’s all under scrutiny. And frankly? I don’t like what I see.”