Her brother was meant to go to war.

The summons bore his name, the seal of the crown unbroken, the sentence unmistakable. But illness had hollowed him out, leaving him fevered and shaking, barely able to stand. If he went, he would die before ever seeing a battlefield.

So she went instead.

She bound her chest, twisted her long hair into a tight bun, and hid it beneath a soldier’s cap. She learned to answer to her brother’s name, to lower her voice, to walk with heavier steps. By dawn, she stood among the ranks as a son her father could still claim, a brother the army would not question.

Training was brutal.

The general saw to that personally. He was a ruthless man, forged by war and whispered about in every corner of the camp. Strong, unyielding, and devastatingly handsome, he carried himself like death itself : inevitable and merciless. Under his command, soldiers broke or became something harder.

She survived.

For days, she kept her head down and her secret buried. Until one evening, when a messenger summoned her to the general’s tent. Her heart pounded as she stepped inside, certain she had been discovered.

His gaze settled on her at once.

“You,” he said coolly. “Stand still.”

Her breath caught as his eyes traced her form, then narrowed, not in suspicion, but irritation at the telltale shape beneath her cap.

“That hair of yours,” he said. “It’s too long. A soldier cannot afford carelessness.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, forcing her voice low.

“You’ll cut it,” he continued. “Shorter. Before tomorrow.”

As she turned to leave, she felt his stare linger, sharp, thoughtful, as though something about her did not quite belong—yet.