Lyan's fingers slid over the curve of Wilhelmina's palm, warmth flowing between their touch, grounding them both. His eyes searched hers, catching the flicker of vulnerability she so rarely displayed—an echo of memories, of losses and choices sharpened by war.
"You were never just a strategist, Wilhelmina," he murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble. "Before the chains, before the battlefield... you were a daughter of Credia, a noble's child who saw the banners of war more than she saw spring blossoms. You know how wars stain more than maps—they stain souls."
Her breath caught, a shiver coursing through her. Memories flashed behind her eyes—halls draped in red velvet, father's stern commands, mother's whispered prayers, the sickly scent of burning villages beyond the manor's safe walls. She had been a child, but even then she learned that wars spoke with swords and whispered through traitor's tongues.
