Caius couldn't escape the memory of Mirelith's sharp tone and colder-than-steel gaze. Her words replayed in his mind, each one a dagger carving into his heart. He had faced countless battles, stood against overwhelming odds, yet the fortress Mirelith had built around herself seemed more impenetrable than any enemy stronghold.

Determined to set things right, he made his way to her tent the following evening. The camp was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of smoke and earth. Lanterns flickered like sentinels in the night, casting long, wavering shadows.

As he approached, Marvic emerged from the shadows, his posture casual yet deliberate, like a soldier standing guard. His silver hair caught the faint light, giving him an almost ethereal quality. He crossed his arms and positioned himself squarely between Caius and the tent flap.

"She needs rest," Marvic said evenly, his tone calm but edged with subtle warning. "Whatever it is can wait."

Caius stiffened, his hand instinctively curling into a fist. The easy familiarity in Marvic's voice grated against his nerves. "This isn't your concern," Caius replied, his tone sharper than he intended. "Step aside."

Marvic didn't flinch. If anything, his gaze grew more pointed. "Mirelith has enough on her plate without dealing with—" He paused, letting the weight of his words linger. "Distractions."

The implication was clear, and Caius's jaw tightened. A flare of something unfamiliar ignited in his chest, irrational yet impossible to quell. Before he could retort, the flap of the tent rustled, and Mirelith stepped out.

Her hair was slightly disheveled, and dark circles shadowed her eyes, but her expression was as resolute as ever. She glanced between the two men, her gaze lingering on Caius. "What's going on here?" she asked, her tone clipped.

Caius straightened. "I need to speak with you."

Mirelith hesitated, her fatigue evident, but then she gave Marvic a subtle nod. "It's fine. I'll handle this."

Marvic didn't move immediately. His eyes locked with hers, a silent exchange passing between them before he inclined his head. "I'll be close," he said, his voice softer now, almost protective. With one last look at Caius, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Caius bristled but said nothing. Mirelith motioned for him to follow her, leading him a short distance from the camp. They stopped near a cluster of trees, the faint rustle of leaves providing a backdrop to the tense silence between them.

"Well?" Mirelith said, crossing her arms. "What is it?"

Caius opened his mouth, but the words he had rehearsed felt hollow now. He looked at her—really looked at her—and the weight of everything he had done bore down on him. Her face was sharper, leaner, etched with a strength forged in hardship. She was no longer the Mirelith he had known, and yet, in some ways, she was still the same.

"I came to apologize," he said finally, his voice quieter than he intended.

Mirelith arched a brow, her expression unreadable. "Apologize," she repeated, the word laced with disbelief. "For what, exactly?"

"For everything," Caius replied, his tone growing firmer. "For not believing you. For condemning you. For failing you."

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger breaking through her calm façade. "You think that's enough? An apology?" She took a step closer, her voice lowering to a fierce whisper. "You want forgiveness? For breaking me? For not believing me? Or for the five years I spent exiled while you lived your life as a prince?"

Her words struck him like a physical blow. Caius swallowed hard, his chest tightening. "I know it's not enough," he admitted. "Nothing I say will ever undo what I've done. But I need you to know—I never stopped regretting it. Every day, Mirelith. Every single day, I wished I had listened to you."

"Regret doesn't change anything," she snapped. Her voice wavered slightly, betraying the emotions simmering beneath her anger. "Do you have any idea what it was like? To be cast out, to lose everything, because of a lie? Do you even care?"

"I care," Caius said, his voice breaking. "More than you'll ever know. I care because I failed you, because I was too blind and too proud to see the truth. And by the time I realized it, it was too late."

The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the camp. But then, a commotion erupted—a shout, followed by the clash of steel. Both turned toward the noise, their personal grievances momentarily forgotten.

It was an ambush.

Mirelith didn't hesitate. Without a word, she sprinted back toward the camp, Caius hot on her heels. When they arrived, chaos reigned. Enemy soldiers had breached the perimeter, and though the camp's guards were holding them off, the wounded quickly began to pile up.

Mirelith was already in motion. She darted through the battlefield with the precision of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Caius watched in stunned silence as she pulled a young soldier to safety, her hands quickly assessing his injuries. Her calm, steady voice rose above the din, barking orders to the other medics as she worked to stop the bleeding.

Then he saw it—a soldier she had just saved was one of the very men who had whispered words against her with open contempt when she arrived at the warfront. Yet Mirelith's expression didn't waver. She worked with the same dedication and care as if he were her closest friend.

Caius's chest tightened. He remembered the way the man had sneered at her, the way he had muttered insults under his breath, still clinging to the stories that had led to her exile. Yet here she was, risking her life for him without a second thought.

He didn't know how long he stood there, frozen, watching her move from one wounded soldier to the next. The battlefield blurred around him, the clash of swords and cries of the injured fading into the background. All he could see was Mirelith—her unyielding resolve, her selflessness, her unwavering dedication to saving lives, no matter the cost.

Something inside him shifted, a crack forming in the wall of guilt and denial he had built around himself. For the first time, he allowed himself to see her—not as the girl he had once betrayed, but as the woman she had become. Strong. Compassionate. Unstoppable.

And in that moment, Caius knew that he had been wrong. Not just about her exile, but about everything. Mirelith was more than the sum of her past, more than the broken promises and lies that had torn them apart. She was a force of nature, and he had been a fool to ever doubt her.

When the battle finally subsided and the enemy retreated, Mirelith was covered in blood and grime, her breath coming in ragged gasps. But her eyes still burned with determination as she knelt beside her last patient, her hands steady even as exhaustion threatened to overtake her.

Caius approached her slowly, his voice low. "You saved them. Even the ones who—"

She cut him off, her voice hoarse but firm. "A healer doesn't choose who deserves to live. We just save who we can."

Her words hit him like a blow, stripping away the last of his excuses. Caius had spent years trying to justify his actions, clinging to the belief that he had been right to condemn her. But here, on the battlefield, Mirelith had shown him the truth.

She was everything he had failed to be.

And as he watched her rise to her feet, weary but unbroken, Caius made a silent vow. He wouldn't just earn her forgiveness—he would spend the rest of his life proving that he was worthy of it.

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Word spread quickly through the camp: Felix and Victor, had arrived with much-needed supplies and reinforcements. The whispers traveled like wildfire, reaching Mirelith as she carefully cleaned and stitched a deep gash on a soldier's leg. At the mention of their names, her hands faltered, the needle slipping for a brief moment. She quickly recovered, but her heart raced as memories she had long buried threatened to surface.

Felix. Victor. She hadn't heard their names in years, but the weight of their betrayal came rushing back as though it had happened yesterday. They had been among the loudest voices condemning her during her trial, standing against her without hesitation. Felix, of all people—her childhood friend, her confidant, and the brother of Sophia, Mirelith's closest friend—had turned against her without question. And Victor, with his calculating demeanor and sharp words, had bolstered the case against her with cold precision.

Mirelith took a deep breath, her expression hardening. The past had no place here, not when there were lives to save. She refocused on her task, finishing the stitches with practiced efficiency. But the names lingered in her mind like a thorn she couldn't dislodge.

Later that evening, as the camp settled into a tense calm, Mirelith was tidying the medical tent when the flap rustled. She looked up, expecting one of her assistants, but her heart dropped when she saw who stood before her. Felix and Victor.

Felix's face was pale, his green eyes—so much like Sophia's—shining with guilt. His normally confident posture was subdued, shoulders slightly hunched as though weighed down by the enormity of his regret. Victor, taller and sterner, seemed less affected, but there was a tightness around his mouth that betrayed his unease.

"Mirelith," Felix began, his voice unsteady. He took a hesitant step forward but stopped when she fixed him with a cold, measured stare.

"What do you want?" she asked, her tone devoid of emotion. Her fingers tightened around the jar of salve she was holding, her knuckles turning white.

Felix faltered, glancing at Victor before continuing. "We... we came to apologize. For everything."

"For everything?" Mirelith repeated, her voice low and sharp. She set the jar down and crossed her arms, her piercing emerald eyes boring into him. "You'll have to be more specific."

Victor stepped in, his voice steadier but no less strained. "We didn't know the truth during the trial. We believed the evidence presented to us, and we were wrong."

Mirelith let out a bitter laugh, the sound devoid of humor. "You believed the evidence? Or you believed what was convenient? What was safe?" Her gaze flicked to Felix. "And you—did you even stop to think for a moment? Or did you just follow along like the obedient courtier you were raised to be?"

Felix flinched as though she had struck him. "I—" he stammered, then swallowed hard. "I thought I was protecting my family. I thought I was protecting Grace. I saw her lying there, pale and motionless, poisoned, and I—" His voice cracked, and he looked away, his fists clenching at his sides. "I couldn't think clearly. When the court presented their evidence against you, when they said you had done it... I didn't question it. I didn't want to believe you could, but I was too afraid to doubt."

Mirelith's throat tightened at the mention of Grace. The memory of her lying on that bed, deathly still, came rushing back, but so did the sting of Felix's betrayal. "And that was enough for you?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her efforts to remain composed. "A few words from the court and Grace's pale face were enough to turn you against me? After everything we'd been through?"

Felix's head snapped up, his green eyes glassy with unshed tears. "It wasn't enough," he said hoarsely. "It should never have been enough. But I was a coward, Mirelith. I chose the easier path because I thought... I thought it would keep everyone safe. And I will never forgive myself for it."

Victor, who had been silent, finally spoke. His tone was quiet, but there was an edge of sincerity that Mirelith hadn't heard from him before. "It wasn't just fear. It was pride. The court convinced us that believing you was foolish, that to doubt their judgment was treasonous. I thought I was being clever, staying loyal to the crown. But I see now it wasn't loyalty. It was arrogance. I should have questioned them. I should have questioned everything."

The silence that followed was deafening. Mirelith studied their faces, searching for something—she didn't know what. Redemption? Sincerity? It felt like too little, too late, but a part of her, buried deep beneath years of anger and pain, wanted to believe them. Wanted to believe that people could change, that they could learn from their mistakes.

"Your apologies," she said finally, her voice steady but cold, "don't undo what was done. But... I'll decide if forgiveness is earned—not given freely."

Felix nodded, his green eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. Victor inclined his head in silent agreement, the tension in his posture easing slightly.

As they turned to leave, Felix hesitated at the tent's entrance. He glanced back, his expression filled with anguish. "For what it's worth, Caius has not stopped uncovering who was the real culprit and he's been clearing your name since he found out." he said softly. "It might be too late to fight for you, but we'll do our best to prove your innocence."

Before she could respond, Felix and Victor stepped out into the night, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Mirelith sank onto a nearby stool, her hands trembling. Her anger, her pain, and her lingering love for the people she had lost all warred within her, leaving her feeling raw and exposed. Felix's words about Caius lingered, opening a wound she hadn't realized was still there.

Could she forgive them? Could she let go of the bitterness that had kept her strong all these years? She didn't know. But for the first time, she felt the faintest flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—she could.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

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As Felix and Victor left the medical tent, their footsteps heavy with the weight of unresolved guilt, they crossed paths with Caius. The prince's sharp eyes lingered on them for a moment before flicking back toward the distant fires of the camp. None of them spoke immediately. The silence between them was thick, burdened by memories of a truth that had come too late—a truth that haunted them still.

It was five years ago when everything unraveled. Mirelith's innocence had emerged from the shadows of conspiracy, but by then, the damage had been done. The image of her trial—her emerald eyes blazing with defiance as she was condemned—remained etched in Caius's memory. He had not just failed a loyal ally; he had betrayed the one person whose strength, combined with his own, could have reshaped the kingdom.

As the three men walked through the camp, their thoughts drifted back to that fateful revelation. It had begun with a scrap of parchment—a hastily discarded letter unearthed by a loyal guard during an investigation into Grace's poisoning. The ink was faded, the words scrawled in urgency, but its implications were clear. Mirelith had been framed, and the culprit—or culprits—were closer to the throne than any of them had dared to imagine.

"The Council," Felix had whispered, his voice trembling as the pieces began to fall into place. "It's them."

Caius had stared at the letter in disbelief, the words blurring before his eyes. The Council—those trusted to uphold the laws of the kingdom—had orchestrated the fall of an innocent woman. And why? The answer was as chilling as it was cunning. Mirelith, daughter of the Duke, was a threat. Her father's influence rivaled that of the king himself, and her bond with Caius, unspoken yet undeniable, had the potential to unite two of the most powerful families in the kingdom. Together, they would have been an unstoppable force, a bulwark against treachery and rebellion. The Council had feared that union, and in their fear, they had acted with ruthless precision.

The poisoning of Grace, the fabricated evidence against Mirelith, the whispers in the court that had grown into a cacophony of accusations—it had all been orchestrated. Mirelith's exile had been their solution, a way to fracture the alliance between her family and the crown without sparking outright rebellion. And yet, even in exile, her father's power had remained untouchable. The Duke was as immovable as the king himself, his influence unshaken by the scandal. The Council's plan had succeeded in removing Mirelith, but it had failed to weaken her family's hold.

For weeks after the discovery, Caius and Felix had worked tirelessly, piecing together the fragmented trail left by the conspirators. Witnesses who might have testified on Mirelith's behalf had vanished, their fates shrouded in mystery. Documents that could have exonerated her had been destroyed or hidden away. And those within the Council who had orchestrated the scheme remained silent, their power shielding them from scrutiny. The deeper they delved, the more dangerous their investigation became. Veiled threats emerged, subtle reminders that even a prince could be vulnerable.

"We were so close," Felix muttered now, his voice heavy with regret. "If it hadn't been for the war..."

Caius's jaw tightened. The war had been their undoing. Just as they had begun to unravel the conspiracy, the kingdom had been plunged into chaos. The looming threat of invasion had forced them to set aside their pursuit of justice. The Council, ever opportunistic, had used the war to bury the truth further, their actions masked by the chaos of battle and politics.

Now, standing amidst the camp, Caius watched Mirelith as she moved among the wounded. Her steps were purposeful, her hands steady as she tended to injuries with practiced precision. She was a stark contrast to the chaos around her, a beacon of resilience that refused to be extinguished. Despite everything, she had endured.

"They feared her," Caius said quietly, his voice barely audible over the distant clamor of the camp. "They feared what we could have become together."

Felix turned to him, his expression grim. "Do you think they still fear her?"

Caius's gaze remained fixed on Mirelith. "They should."

Silence fell between them as they watched her work. Felix broke it first, his tone hesitant. "Do you think she... she'll ever forgive us?"

Caius didn't answer immediately. The question weighed heavily on him, intertwining with his own guilt. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "Forgiveness isn't something we can demand. It's something we have to earn."

Felix nodded, though his expression betrayed his doubt. "And if she doesn't?"

Caius's jaw clenched. "Then we keep trying."

The past loomed over them like a shadow, its weight unrelenting. They had failed Mirelith, not just as allies but as men who should have stood by her when it mattered most. Yet as Caius watched her—unbroken, unwavering—he felt a flicker of hope. The war had paused their search for justice, but it hadn't ended it. The Council's treachery might be buried, but it wasn't forgotten. And if Mirelith's strength had taught him anything, it was that some battles were worth fighting, no matter how long they took.

As Felix and Caius turned to leave, Mirelith glanced up, her gaze meeting Caius's across the distance. For a moment, neither of them moved. Her expression was unreadable, her emerald eyes piercing through the veil of time and regret. Then, without a word, she turned back to her work, leaving Caius with the faint, haunting echo of a future that might have been—and the determination to ensure that the Council would one day answer for their crimes.