Caius strode through the camp, his armor dulled by ash and grime, its once-pristine shine dimmed by years of war. The fires flickered low against the night, their embers casting long shadows over the faces of soldiers hunched in exhaustion. Each step felt heavier, as though the memories he carried were chains binding him to a past he couldn't change.

The scent of blood, charred wood, and damp earth lingered in the air, a bitter reminder of battles fought and lives lost. But tonight, it wasn't the war that haunted him—it was her.

Mirelith.

Her name was a whisper in his mind, an ache that refused to fade. Five years had passed since the trial, since he'd stood in judgment of her, blinded by fury and the need for swift justice. He remembered her pleas, her emerald eyes glistening with tears as she swore her innocence. And he had turned away.

Because believing her would have meant questioning everything: the testimony, the court, and his own judgment. He hadn't wanted to see the cracks in the foundation of his decisions. By the time the truth had surfaced, it had been too late.

The note, scrawled in haste and hidden among the maid's belongings, had been damning. Mirelith had been framed, and Caius had failed her. The realization had struck him like a blade, cutting deeper than any wound he had suffered in battle. He had condemned an innocent woman—a woman he had once... what? Admired? Cared for? Respected?

He didn't know anymore. All he knew was the hollow pit of regret that had consumed him since the day she was banished.

As he walked, fragments of the past resurfaced, unbidden. The memory of her laughter ringing through the halls when they were children, the way she would challenge him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She had always been bold, unafraid to meet him as an equal even when others bowed to his title.

And then there was that day—so long ago when he was still a child, it felt like another lifetime—when she had found him sulking by the castle fountain, furious after losing a sparring match. She hadn't mocked him or offered empty consolation. Instead, she had splashed water on him, her grin wide and unapologetic, pulling him out of his dark mood with her sheer defiance of his sulk.

That Mirelith had been full of life and fire. The last time he'd seen her, she had been shattered, her spirit dimmed by betrayal and his own hand in it.

He stopped outside the main medical tent, his heart pounding in a way that no battle had ever caused. Steeling himself, he stepped inside, the stifling heat wrapping around him like a shroud. He scanned the room, taking in the chaos—rows of cots filled with wounded men, the sharp tang of antiseptic mingling with the metallic scent of blood.

And then he saw her.

She was crouched beside a soldier, her hands deft as she cleaned a jagged wound on his side. Her hair was shorter now, falling just to her shoulders, but it suited her. Her face was leaner, sharper, etched with a quiet strength he didn't remember. She was speaking softly, her voice too low for him to hear, but whatever she said made the soldier relax slightly, the tension in his posture easing.

She had changed, and yet she hadn't. The determination in her eyes, the focus in her movements—they were unmistakably Mirelith. And for a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The weight of everything he wanted to say pressed against his chest, threatening to crush him.

He didn't know how long he stood there, watching her. Long enough for her to finish tending to the soldier and gather her supplies. She straightened and glanced around the tent, her gaze briefly sweeping past him without recognition—or, perhaps, without acknowledgment.

She left without a word.

Caius's feet moved before he could think. He followed her, weaving through the camp, his pulse hammering in his ears. He found her by a fire at the edge of the medical tents, speaking with a man whose silver hair caught the light of the flames. They were laughing softly, their voices low, and Mirelith's smile—unrestrained, genuine—was like a knife to his heart.

She looked... at peace. As though the years of pain and exile had forged something unbreakable within her. It was a stark contrast to the guilt and regret that had hollowed him out.

Caius lingered in the shadows, unable to step closer. What could he say to her? What words could undo the damage he had caused, the years she had lost because of him? He wanted to beg her forgiveness, but the weight of his failures silenced him.

The silver-haired man said something, and Mirelith laughed again, the sound so painfully familiar it made his chest tighten. Caius clenched his fists, jealousy and sorrow warring within him. He wanted to be the one to make her smile like that, to rebuild the bridge he had burned.

But he couldn't move. The confidence that carried him through battle faltered in her presence. He turned away, his steps heavy as he retreated into the night.

As he walked back to his tent, the memory of her laughter lingered, a haunting reminder of everything he had lost—not because of war, but because of his own blindness.

For now, all he could do was carry the weight of his regret and hope that one day, he might find the courage to face her.