“Now what?” her voice came through, half-buried in the cot’s blankets.

  “You eat,” he said rinsing his hands, murky red water filling the basin.

  “Then, you sleep.”

  A smile bloomed over her face. One of derision and ridicule.

  “What am I now? Your dog? Your little pet?”

  She sat up slowly, one hand pressed to the stitches. Her breath shook slightly, animosity still clear as day in her gaze.

  “You heal me. Feed me. Tuck me to sleep. Do you enjoy this?”

  “Does washing my blood off your hands make you clean, commander?”

  Her voice sank, venom coating every syllable.

  “Does it make you a worthy man?”

  Alric’s eyes turned to her, unmoving, uncaring.

  He said nothing. Instead, he called for his servant, voice cutting through the dwindling storm.

  “Vargo!”

  She flinched, fear shadowing her face briefly.

  Immediately after, the tent’s flap opened and a sinewy figure emerged from the shadow without.

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “Bring me broth, bread and water. Now.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Vargo went out as soon as he came in. Hurried strides echoing against the canvas walls.

  Left in silence, the tent seemed to breathe slower, the braziers’ soft glow casting long shadows across the walls.

  Alric turned to the basin and reached for the cloth.

  From the cot she stared.

  His movements were methodically efficient in their execution.

  The backs of his hands scarred and bruised. The faint tremor in the way he dried his palms. The broad square of his shoulders.

  Those unyeilding silvery-grey eyes that seemed to be more spirit than human.

  It was as if war had reared a child for precise slaughter. As though a man had been sharpened into iron a thousand times.

  Her breath hitched like wind pulled against its will.

  “You think yourself a saviour?”

  No answer came. Just the muted drag of linen on skin.

  “You give me nothing but silence and call it salvation. Should I be grateful to you? Should I be honoured that you decided to let me live when I told you to let me die in that field?”

  Still nothing.

  “Do you have any semblance of humanity left under all that steel skin?”

  He put down the damp cloth. His gaze, not as unmoving as before, found her.

  Then, he pulled the closest brazier closer to her cot, put a clean bandage beside her, and moved to the war table.

  He took Ink and quill in hand, scratched parchment followed.

  “Am I just a name to cross on that ledger of yours?”

  The scratching halted for a moment before it resumed.

  She shifted again, towards him now. Her voice trembled.

  “Why… do you say… NOTHING?!”

  Her voice rasped, brittle and raw, as if silence would be worse than death.

  The writing stopped.

  With his back still to her, he spoke.

  “I hear you.”

  The words hung in the air between them like winter’s frost.

  Incredulous, she scoffed.

  “You—”

  The tent’s flap opened.

  Vargo came in, boots soaked, tray in hand.

  Bowls of steaming broth, cups of water and bread rested on top of it.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “My Lord,” he said, eyes flicking to the cot momentarily. “The food.”

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  Placing it near Alric, he bowed, and retreated into the night again.

  Only silence remained. Save for the receding tapping of the waning rain.

  She stared.

  “Tell me again, commander. What. Do you hear?”

  Her voice accusatory and low, but laced in uncertainty.

  He took the tray in hand and approached the cot, every step echoing like a funeral toll.

  He placed the food beside her and held her gaze.

  “I hear you.”

  She blinked. Then let out a sharp, jagged laugh like splintered bone.

  “You hear me? Really? That’s what you’re going to go with?”

  She seized the bread and hurled it at him.

  It thudded dully off his pauldron.

  “Say that again if you dare, you disgusting hypocrite.”

  He knelt, retrieved it, and placed it beside her again.

  “I hear you.”

  She stared at him quivering. Something hotter than hatred smouldered in her soul.

  Her jaw clenched.

  She clutched the bread again, and flung it harder.

  This time it struck the bridge of his nose before falling limp to the floor.

  “Do you think healing me is even possible?” her voice cracked. “Do I look like your penance? A prop in your pantomime of redemption?”

  He did as before. Calmly. Wordlessly.

  “I hear you.”

  That did it. Something snapped in her head.

  “YOU DO NOT HEAR ANYTHING BUT YOUR OWN GODS-DAMNED GUILT!”

  Her breath ragged, exasperation tightened around her voice like curled vines. She forced a crooked smile of contempt.

  “Fine. If you hear me, then feed me, scum.”

  She opened her mouth, gesturing to it with a finger.

  “Let’s see your honesty.”

  He knelt, broke the bread, dipped it in broth, and offered it.

  He showed no pride in his movements. No contempt for her or her brokenness. But unwavering duty-bound action.

  This torched her worse than the men had in that field of blood.

  She recoiled.

  “Spare me your fucking food. I don’t need it.”

  She laid down and covered herself with the blankets, showing her back to him.

  He stood and placed the bread down with care.

  Then, turned and without a word, walked behind the partition.

  Then the sound broke the silence.

  Clasps clicked. Buckles groaned. Steel chafed against itself.

  He stripped everything that bore the insignia of command. Every piece of war that made him more than man.

  Everything laid bare on the ground for him to discard.

  When he came back, his steps were muted, softer.

  He stopped before the cot.

  “Did you finally decide to do what you wanted from the beginning?”

  Her voice, as her back, shivered.

  “No.” he answered. A quiet honesty in his tone.

  Hesitantly, she turned her body to face him.

  Her gaze met his form. No longer a monster in human skin wearing plate, but a man in stained and muddled ashen grey cloth.

  “What are you doing now?”

  He knelt again, dipped the bread, and offered it.

  “Come.”

  Trembling, unsure, she leaned forward and ate.

  She tried to hold back the tears.

  But as she saw him breaking a piece and eat, her eyes widened, and streaks of clear streams came down her cheeks.

  She looked at him as if she didn’t know if to collapse, or curse him.

  “Why are you doing this?” she softly whispered.

  “What are you even trying to fix with this performance?”

  She blinked, trying to stop the tears, to no avail.

  “Do you think feeding me fixes anything?”

  “Does it make you… good?”

  She spat out that word as if its utterance might hurt.

  “I hear you.” He said once again.

  She wept.

  He dipped again and gave.

  They shared.

  The storm softened against the tent, its anger dissipating into reverent afterglow.

  Then—

  “Commander. The seneschals are waiting for you at the Tents of Meeting. I’d advise not to tarry any longer.”

  The voice cut through the air like a rusted blade on a bloated corpse.

  Alric’s jaw tightened.

  Parasites, the lot of them.

  He stood, walked to the tent’s entrance and drew it back.

  There stood a man swaddled in crimson brocade, the folds of his tunic opulent and magisterial.

  Upon his head rested a conical hat so absurdly tall it seemed as though his brain had stretched toward the sky in an attempt to escape its bony cage.

  His mother must’ve died full of regret, birthing such a candle-faced fuckspawn into the world.

  “Commander,” the man began, tone syruped with mock civility. “Your face is unusually hard this evening. And judging by your modest attire, and the rather loud shouting, I fear I may have interrupted during a… most sensitive moment.”

  He smiled. Wet, smug and self-assured.

  “Forgive me, of course.” He bowed.

  “But duty calls, and you must answer it. Now.”

  One day I’ll gut you all like swine, feed you your entrails, and let the dogs drink your blood clean off the marble stones you cherish so deeply.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I change,” voice barely held together by sheer will.

  The pig nodded, looking modestly pleased.

  “As you should. Goodbye.”

  His feet seemed disgusted by the mere fact they had to touch ground, rather than glide over soft, palatial textiles.

  As he waddled off, another figure lingered by the flap, hiding by the tent’s shadow.

  Vargo.

  Hood covering his eyes, a dagger unsheathed just a finger width’s.

  His eyes met Alric’s for a moment with a question asked in stillness.

  Alric shook his head.

  The blade slid back.

  Then Vargo disappeared into the shadows like spectral mist.

  Restraining the urge to cut him down there and then, Alric turned back inside, letting the tent’s flap fall shut behind him.

  He walked to the partition, but stopped midway, fixing his gaze on Priscilla.

  With a heavy tone, he warned her.

  “If they ask you anything, do not answer them. Not a single word. Do not open your mouth for even a moment in their audience. No matter the cost. Because if you do, they’ll have you killed by the next breath. Remember, by my orders you should’ve died.”

  She answered. Her tone like dry grass.

  “If you say so. I’ll try to keep it in mind.”

  He nodded. “Good,” then disappeared behind the partition once more.

  This time, there was no clatter of metal. No chorus of clasps or buckles. Only the hushed drag of linen slipping over skin.

  When Alric emerged, he was clad in a different kind of armour.

  A black formal tunic clothed him, austere and heavy with imperial gravitas fell to his thighs.

  At his waist, hung a sword belt bereft of its weapon.

  His trousers, dark and neatly pressed, vanished into leather boots shined by habit.

  Over one shoulder, a military cloak draped. Not the battlefield’s standard, but the ceremonial mantle for quieter executions.

  Upon his right middle finger, the sun-wreathed lightning glinted cold and immovable.

  The sigil of command.

  He checked himself once, then turned to her and spoke, voice level and cold as rainwater.

  “Let no one in but me or Vargo. The rest are enemies. Understood?”

  She looked at him silent and uncertain.

  “So now you’re my protector?” her voice lacked venom this time. It sounded almost tired.

  “After everything’s that’s happened… now you care?”

  He didn’t move nor blink.

  Her fingers twitched beneath the blankets.

  “Just go. I can’t stand looking at you.”

  She turned her head, burying her cheek into the cot.

  Giving one last look at her, he stepped out.

  Vargo waited outside, half-shadowed by the tent’s edge.

  Alric stopped and turned his eyes towards him, a silent order in his eyes.

  Protect her.

  Vargo understood immediately, shifting closer to the entrance.

  Alric walked on, vanishing into the dark, toward a meeting of silken-tongued spiders.