The night was heavy with the smell of blood and ash. The camp, hastily erected on the jagged stones of the Stepstones, was lit by the flickering light of the fires.

Daemon dismounted from Caraxes, his battle cloak soaked with sweat and blood. The distant roar of the dragon echoed across the sky as the creature retreated to rest in the heights.

Soldiers and mercenaries greeted him, but Daemon did not hear them. His eyes were fixed toward the central tent, where he knew someone was waiting for him.

His tent was spacious but bare, furnished only with the bare necessities. In the center, sitting on a makeshift stool, Corlys sharpened his sword, his face calm, as if the din of battle had not just shaken the ground.

When Daemon entered, he looked up, a gleam of recognition in his eyes. “A minor victory,” Corlys murmured. "But necessary. The Triarchy will retreat, at least for now."

Daemon didn't answer right away. He removed his helmet, letting his silver hair fall over his battle-scarred face. When he spoke, his voice was thick with exhaustion and determination.

"It's not enough. We'll need more blood before this hunk of rock kneels." Corlys merely nodded. He understood Daemon's impatience, but he knew that time was the greatest ally in wars like this.

Before he could respond, Daemon turned his back on him and walked out of the tent, heading for his private space.

When he entered his private tent, he found the young woman kneeling beside the table, arranging some utensils. She looked up when she saw him, her wide eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and unease. She was a camp follower, a "war bride," as the men scornfully called her.

But to Daemon, there was something about her that went beyond coincidence. He stared at her for a long moment, as if he needed to remind himself that he was really here, outside the chaos of the battle. He approached her with slow steps, removing the heavy pieces of his armor.

"I'm back," he said dryly, but there was a softness in his voice that only she could bring out.