Draven's pov
She was late.
The cold wind sliced across the northern tower like blades drawn in warning, and still, I waited. My breath clouded in front of me, sharp and white, and the pacing didn't help. My boots scuffed the stone floor in worn circles. Each step echoed like a countdown.
I told myself it didn't matter,that this wasn't about her. That the watchtower recon was necessary. That the enemy had moved too close to the ridgeline, and my instincts had flared. But instincts weren't what brought me here. Not really.
This wasn't about recon.
It was about her.
Eira.
The truth tasted bitter on my tongue. I'd told a dozen lies over the years,spun stories to commanders, to soldiers, to enemies. But none stung like the lie I kept feeding myself now. That I wasn't here because I missed her. Because I couldn't stand the distance. Because watching her walk away the last time left a crater in my chest that hadn't stopped aching since.
