The hut was quiet, lit only by the fading amber of late afternoon slipping through the gaps in the hides. The world outside hummed softly — a drum in the distance, wind in the trees, the faint laughter of children near the river. But in here, time seemed to still.

Their limbs were tangled beneath a mess of woven blankets, skin warm from touch and breath, hearts not yet settled from the closeness they’d just shared. eagle flies lay half-curled against her, the tension drained from his body in a way it rarely ever did. His long hair was mussed, one braid completely undone, cheeks flushed, chest rising slow and steady.

There was peace in the silence — not awkward, not uncertain, just quiet. A quiet that held something sacred. The kind of silence people don’t often get in a life shaped by duty and war.

It wasn’t planned. It never was. But when the camp fell into calm and the sun dipped low, there were moments where the world allowed softness — and he let himself have it.

Then footsteps approached the hut.

A voice outside. Firm. Familiar.

He stiffened.

She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, stifling laughter as his eyes went wide and the illusion of serenity shattered like glass. Limbs scrambled. Blankets twisted. Something fell and rolled with a dull thud across the floor.