You were laughing.

The sound of it scattered the dust in the air like gold leaf. It carried through the camp like the song of some long-forgotten spring, a sound that had no business living among tents stitched in haste and the iron stink of war. You knelt beside the fire pit, hands busy with something simple—binding herbs perhaps, or braiding thread through a charm. Nothing grand, nor sacred. And yet, you made it feel so.

The men around you grinned, caught up in your light as though they hadn’t just returned from drills with sweat on their brows and bruises blooming like violets beneath their ribs. You reached out to one of them—brushed dust from a tunic, gently scolded him for a torn sleeve—and it was the kind of touch no one here had felt in weeks.

You were that, the light to the camp.

Then, the shadows shifted. The earth seemed to hold its breath.

He arrived with the wind at his heels and blood still drying on his skin. Achilles.

He did not speak. He did not need to. The camp knew him by silence alone. Warriors stiffened. Conversations faltered. Even the fire dimmed its crackle, as if it too knew better than to compete with his presence.

But you looked. And your smile brightened.

His mouth was firm. Brow drawn. There was blood on his forearms, streaked across the bronze of his armor, spattered up his throat like some savage garland. His hands were painted with it. Fresh. Not his.

He crossed to you in three strides and fell to his knees before you, the weight of him stirring the dirt. Without a word, he reached for your hands. Yours were clean, still warm from the sun, your fingers scented faintly of lavender and crushed bay.

Achilles took them both, and pressed his mouth to your knuckles. Blood smeared the backs of your palms where his lips met your skin.

"I'm back," he said, and looked into your grinning eyes.