Zephyr stood in the dimly lit tent, the weight of Thorn's words pressing down on him like a crushing tide. The entire right flank is gone. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. That wasn't just Nyx. He knew what she was capable of, and as terrifying as she was, she wasn't this. This was something worse. Something they hadn't accounted for.
His stomach churned, but not from hunger. How many died screaming? How many never even saw it coming? He tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung to him like ghosts, whispering in the back of his mind.
Then—a tap on his shoulder.
His body tensed, instincts flaring as he spun around, reaching for his weapon—only to stop short when he saw her.
Elira.
She stood there, a plate of food in her hands, her expression unreadable.
"Here," she said, her voice softer than usual. "Eat up. You must be starving."
Zephyr glanced down at the bowl. Porridge and bread. The steam still rose from it, curling into the air, carrying a warmth that felt out of place in the cold tension gripping his chest.
For a moment, he just stared at it.
How could he eat when so many were dead? When the weight of an entire war was on his shoulders?
But Elira didn't move. She just stood there, watching him with the kind of patience that made it impossible to refuse. So, without a word, he took the food and stepped out of the tent, needing space—needing air.
Yet, as he walked, the feeling of being watched prickled at his senses.
He sighed.
"You're not exactly subtle," he muttered, stopping near a stack of crates. Without turning, he pointed. "Come on out, Elira."
Silence. Then, after a few rustling sounds, she finally stepped into view. She wouldn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the ground, her arms crossed tight over her chest.
"Well…" she hesitated, kicking a small rock at her feet. "I was just looking out for you, idiot." Her voice was quieter now. "I was worried you'd do something reckless after the meeting."
Zephyr let out a breath—a mix of frustration and something else he couldn't quite name.
"Reckless?" he murmured. "What does it matter? Thorn made it clear—I'm the vanguard. I walk in first. I fight first. I die first if things go wrong." He let out a hollow chuckle. "So tell me, Elira, what exactly do you expect me to do? Sit here and pretend like I have a choice?"
Elira's head snapped up. For a second, there was only silence between them—thick, heavy, suffocating. Then, she took a step closer, her voice firm.
"You think you're the only one carrying this burden?" Her eyes burned into his. "You think you're the only one who's lost people? Who feels like they're breaking under the weight of all this?"
Zephyr opened his mouth to argue, but she didn't let him.
"Every single person in that camp is scared, Zephyr. But they keep moving forward. Not because they want to, but because they have to. Because if they don't, everything we've fought for—everything we've lost—will mean nothing." She swallowed hard, her voice wavering for the first time. "So yeah, I followed you. Because I am worried about you. Because despite everything, despite how stubborn and reckless you are, I don't want to lose you too."
Zephyr stared at her, caught off guard by the raw honesty in her words.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, slowly, his lips curved into a small, tired smile. Not mocking. Not teasing. Just… grateful.
"Oh? Someone's worried about me now?" he said, his voice lighter, though the exhaustion still clung to it.
Elira huffed, crossing her arms again, but there was no real anger behind it. "Forget it. Eat your damn food before I take it back."
Zephyr let out a quiet chuckle and sat down on a nearby crate, taking a bite of the bread.
It was dry. The porridge was bland. But for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn't care.
Because for the first time in a long time… he didn't feel alone.
Zephyr chewed slowly, lost in his thoughts, the bland taste of the food barely registering. The weight of what lay ahead still pressed against his chest, but something about Elira's words lingered. You're not the only one carrying this burden.
When he finally finished, he stood and met her gaze.
"Alright," he said, his voice steady. "I understand now. I'll do my best… and I expect the same from you. And I believe—no, I know—you still have my back."
Elira's expression shifted, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. She gave a small nod, the faintest trace of a smile appearing.
"You should get some rest," she said, crossing her arms. "Even the so-called 'hero' still needs sleep."
Zephyr huffed a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, you're right. I'll be heading to my quarters then." He gave her a pointed look. "And you should sleep too."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. With a final nod, they parted ways.
As Zephyr made his way toward his tent, the night air felt heavier than before. The sounds of the camp had quieted—most of the soldiers had settled in for what little rest they could steal before the battle. Yet, as he passed one of the benches near the command tents, a familiar sight stopped him in his tracks.
General Thorn sat there, a bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses in front of him.
Zephyr narrowed his eyes. Two glasses.
He stepped closer. "General… what's the other glass for?"
Thorn looked up, his gaze unfocused, the smell of alcohol thick in the air. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then he let out a rough chuckle.
"Ooooh, Zephyr," he drawled, waving him over. "Come here. Sit. Sit." He patted the empty space beside him.
Zephyr hesitated but eventually sat down. The wood creaked under their weight. Thorn picked up the second glass, pouring deep red wine into it before handing it to Zephyr.
"Here," he muttered. "I was waiting for you."
There was something in Thorn's voice—something Zephyr couldn't quite place. It wasn't just drunken rambling. It was heavy.
Zephyr took the glass, feeling the weight of more than just the drink in his hands.
The night stretched on, thick with unspoken words.