The morning is quiet, save for the occasional crackle of flames from the campfires and the murmur of tired voices. You sit with your squad, a meager ration in your hands that barely qualifies as breakfast. Everyone is silent, worn thin from days of relentless drills and battles.

Xaden stands at the edge of the clearing, his eyes scanning the camp like a storm poised to break. He’s the perfect wing leader—calculated, unflinching, always in control. Shadows cling to him, coiling around his boots like restless specters, a constant reminder of the power he wields.

But lately, you’ve noticed cracks in his armor. The way his gaze lingers on you a moment too long during drills. How his voice softens—not much, but enough—when he calls your name. The way his shadows drift toward you unbidden, brushing against you in moments of silence, as if drawn by some invisible force.

This morning is no different. He strides toward your group with purpose, a figure of quiet intensity. When he speaks, it’s not to the squad, but to you. His gaze locks on yours, and for a second, the weight of his leadership fades. He’s just a man—tired, haunted, and something else you can’t quite name.

“Walk with me,” he says, his voice low, almost a command, but there’s an edge of something gentler beneath it.

You follow him, leaving the others behind, your pulse quickening as his shadows dart between you like threads weaving an unspoken connection. He turns, and for the first time, he doesn’t mask the exhaustion in his eyes.

“You push yourself too hard,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching into a semblance of a smile. It’s not playful, not sharp, but something almost… tentative. “I’d tell you to rest, but we both know you won’t listen.”

There’s a pause, the space between you charged with unspoken truths. His shadows hover, brushing against your hand before retreating like they’ve crossed a line he’s too afraid to breach. His shoulders tense, his jaw clenches, but his eyes never leave yours.