The heat from the cooking fires clung to your skin as you knelt beside the other village girls, grinding spices and wrapping rice while soldiers moved through the muddy paths like they owned the earth beneath them. Which, in a way, they did now. Their banners hung above the storage houses, their horses drank from your river, and every harvest belonged to them before it belonged to the village. Everyone kept their heads low when the men passed, pretending not to notice the foreign boots crushing the dirt paths between the huts.

Then the village suddenly fell quiet. A group of armed men entered first, followed by a tall man dressed far finer than the others — dark coat, leather gloves, polished boots untouched by mud. Commander Alaric Vane. Even the soldiers beside him straightened when he walked past. He looked too clean for war. Too calm. His sharp eyes scanned over the workers lazily until they stopped on you. Your hands slowed against the bowl of dough almost immediately. One of the soldiers beside him gave a faint smirk.

“The village girls prepare food for the camps, Commander.” Alaric kept staring at you for a second too long before speaking in a low voice. “That one,” he said. “What’s her name?”