The night was thick with the scent of blood and burning wood. Mirelith worked tirelessly, her hands steady as she treated wounds, stitched gashes, and prepared tinctures. The chaos around her was unrelenting, but she had learned to drown it out, focusing solely on the patient before her.

She wiped the sweat from her brow, glancing toward the dim firelight outside the tent. Whispers filled the air, their tone hushed yet brimming with urgency.

"The Knight Commander is here."

"The prince himself?"

"Aye, Prince Caius."

Mirelith's hand froze mid-motion. The name rippled through her like a distant echo, dredging up memories she had long tried to bury. The weight of that name once carried an unbearable burden, but now, she steeled herself against it.

Her grip tightened on the bandage she was applying. He's nothing more than a commander. Just another knight in this war.

The murmurs grew louder as the news spread, the air in the camp thickening with a strange mixture of awe and tension. Soldiers straightened their postures, their voices quieter, their movements sharper. Even the seasoned healers, hardened by years of battle, seemed to stiffen at the mention of the Knight Commander's name.

Mirelith forced herself to continue her work. I'm here to heal the wounded, not to relive the past. She tucked the bandage neatly into place and moved on to the next cot, her resolve unwavering.

But no matter how much she focused, the memories threatened to resurface—the sound of his voice, the way he had once looked at her, and the way it all fell apart. Her chest tightened as she forced the thoughts away. Caius was irrelevant now, and she had no time for ghosts.

As the night deepened, Mirelith stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. The camp was a hive of activity, with soldiers moving supplies and healers tending to the injured. The war had stripped the glamour from everything, leaving behind only necessity and survival.

She stood at the edge of the camp, gazing at the dark horizon. The sky above was littered with stars, their beauty stark against the brutality of the world below. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel the ache in her muscles, the weariness in her bones. She had worked non-stop since arriving, pushing herself harder than ever, and yet the wounded seemed endless.

"Hard day?" a familiar voice asked.

Mirelith turned to see Marvic, his usual calm presence a balm against the chaos. He handed her a flask, which she accepted gratefully. The liquid was bitter but warming, chasing away the chill of the night air.

"It's no harder than usual," Mirelith replied, her tone even. "I've seen worse."

Marvic raised an eyebrow. "You've been holding yourself together better than most. But you should know when to take a break."

"I can rest when the war ends," Mirelith said, her voice sharper than she intended. She softened it with a small smile. "But thank you."

Marvic leaned against the post beside her, studying her carefully. "You heard about the Knight Commander."

Mirelith stiffened but didn't respond.

"You're tense," he noted. "Let me guess—he's someone from your past."

She let out a short, humorless laugh. "It doesn't matter. The past is irrelevant. I'm here to do a job, nothing more."

Marvic didn't press further, his silence offering a quiet understanding. The stars above seemed brighter as they stood there, both lost in their own thoughts.

Later that night, Mirelith returned to the medical tent, her thoughts more focused. The mention of Caius had shaken her, but she refused to let it control her. Her patients needed her, and that was all that mattered.

As she stitched another wound, she overheard two soldiers speaking in low voices nearby.

"They say the Knight Commander hasn't rested in days."

"Doesn't surprise me. He's been leading from the front, pushing Dunmere back."

"Do you think we'll see him here?"

"Who knows? But if he's here, things must be serious."

Mirelith forced herself to tune them out. Caius's presence in the camp was inevitable, but she wouldn't allow it to distract her. She had spent five years rebuilding herself, letting go of the girl who had once chased after his approval. That girl was gone, and in her place stood someone stronger, someone who didn't need to be seen or loved by anyone to prove her worth.

As the night wore on, Mirelith worked tirelessly, her focus absolute. Each life she saved, each wound she treated, was a small victory against the tide of destruction. The past could stay buried, where it belonged. For now, the only thing that mattered was the present—and the countless lives depending on her steady hands.