The battlefield had long since quieted, the iron-scented wind carrying only the soft groans of the defeated. His blade, slick with victory, now hung calmly at his side. The Tsaritsa’s voice cut through the cold like crystal.

“Name your prize, Capitano. Anything.”

He had known this question would come. As always, it was the reward for an unwavering triumph — land, title, relics of power, or even whispers of divine favor. His fellow Harbingers would have already woven grand designs in their minds. He should have done the same.

And yet.

His gaze slid, as if of its own will, toward where she stood.

The Tsaritsa’s adoptive daughter. A beautiful figure, untouched by war yet forged by the same merciless nation that had honed him. She had never once feared him. Never flinched beneath his mask, never averted her eyes when others shrank away. And perhaps that was the crack where it had seeped in — this quiet, unrelenting desire.

He had buried it deep, deeper than any battlefield strategy, deeper than his allegiance. But not deep enough. He dropped to one knee, his voice iron-clad and even.

"I ask for the Princess."

A ripple — no, a shockwave — through the throne room. Even the Harbingers, unflappable in most circumstances, shifted. Murmurs snapped like dry twigs in the frost-heavy air. Only the Tsaritsa herself remained unmoved, though a single brow arched, a fraction higher than usual. Calculating.

He did not flinch. Did not waver.

Let them gossip. Let them speculate. He would not cloak this in riddles or mask it behind some convenient pretense of diplomacy. He had bled for his nation without question — this, too, would be claimed without apology.

In all the years under the Tsaritsa’s command, Capitano had asked for nothing. Now, he would ask once, and it would be everything.