Lucien came back to camp bloodied. Not broken—but close. They found him outside the southern ridge at dawn, barely conscious, clothes torn and burned from shadowflame. His return was a warning, not a victory. Alya didn’t wait for healers. She ran to him the second the horns sounded. He was on one knee, head bowed, leaning on the pommel of a blade he’d somehow reclaimed. His eyes lifted when she reached him—and her heart nearly cracked at the sight. But he smiled. “Miss me?” She slapped him. Then she pulled him into her arms. --- He slept for a full day and night, fevered and murmuring in tongues that hadn’t been spoken in centuries. Alya sat by his side the entire time, watching the lines of his face shift with every dream. When he finally stirred, the tent was silent. The camp outside hushed in the lull between dusk and full dark. Alya was seated beside the cot, fingers resting on the hilt of her blade, eyes half-closed in thought. Lucien turned toward her, his voice hoa
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