The night had settled heavy over the outpost, and though the forest beyond was silent, the memory of the cloaked figures still hung in the air like smoke—unseen, but choking.
Elara sat by the fire, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She didn't sleep. Neither did the others, not really. Kai lay with his arms folded behind his head, eyes open to the stars. Rhys was still perched on the ridge, unmoving. And Keshav had retreated to the shadows as he always did.
When the creak of a horse reached her ears, Elara turned, alert. A rider approached, slowing to a trot near the post.
Her breath caught.
Damien dismounted with the grace of someone who belonged to battlefields and moonlight. His cloak billowed behind him, dusted with travel. He didn't speak right away. Just looked at her—as though confirming something for himself.
"Commander." She stood hastily, heart thudding.
"At ease," he said quietly, his gaze flicking to the empty surroundings. "You didn't report back. I came to see why."
Elara swallowed. "We… encountered something."
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "The grey-cloaked figures?"
"You know about them?"
Damien's jaw twitched. "Only whispers."
She handed him the etched stone Rhys had retrieved from the ridge. He turned it over in his hand, the firelight catching the markings.
"That symbol," Elara said softly, "it's older than the Forgotten Sons. I saw it in the archives once… in a scroll no one talks about."
Damien didn't reply at first. The silence was thick between them, heavier than usual.
Then he said, "Your hands are shaking."
She hadn't noticed. Quickly, she folded them beneath the blanket.
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." His voice dropped a note, more human than commander. "And you shouldn't have to be."
She looked at him, stunned by the softness in his tone.
For a moment, the weight of it all—the disguise, the pressure, the fear—threatened to spill from her eyes. But she bit it back. Always biting it back.
"I didn't expect you to come," she said, voice low.
"I didn't plan to."
They stared at each other, the fire crackling softly between them. And then, something shifted.
Damien stepped into the glow, his gaze lingering on her face. There was a tension there—something quiet, coiled, but unmistakable.
"I've been watching you," he said. "Since the trials."
Elara's breath hitched. "Because I was weak?"
"No," he murmured. "Because I was wrong."
He said it like it cost him.
Elara felt her heart twist. She could see it now, the way he looked at her. Like he was seeing something more. Something real. Her mask wavered, and for a heartbeat, she wondered if he could see through it—not just to the girl beneath the armor, but to the fire that burned behind her eyes.
"I won't ask what you're hiding," Damien said suddenly, his voice soft, nearly a whisper. "Not yet."
Her lips parted in shock, but before she could speak, he turned away, walking toward the outpost.
"I'll be staying the night," he added over his shoulder. "We leave at dawn."
And then he was gone, swallowed by the dark corridor inside.
Elara stood frozen by the fire, her heart thrumming like a war drum.
Not yet.
That meant he knew.
That meant he saw her.
And yet… he didn't turn away.
He stayed.
Something stirred in her chest—terrifying and beautiful all at once.