Three weeks had passed since that fateful day by the riverside. The memory of Mirelith's near-death experience haunted Caius, but duty called him back to the battlefield. The war raged on, and as a prince and commander, he had responsibilities that could not be ignored.

The camp pulsed with the rhythms of war. Soldiers moved with grim determination, and the medical tents were a constant flurry of activity. Mirelith moved through the chaos with practiced precision, directing the flow of patients into triage. Her hands were swift but gentle as she cleaned wounds, wrapped bandages, and issued commands to her assistants. Fatigue clung to her like a shadow, but she pressed on. Lives were at stake, and rest was a luxury she couldn't afford.

She had just finished wrapping a knight's injured arm when a young assistant sprinted toward her, pale and breathless.

"Mirelith," he gasped, urgency cracking his voice. "It's the Knight Commander. He's hurt—badly."

Her heart seized for a moment before she forced it steady. "Where?" she demanded, her voice sharp.

"The critical ward," the boy stammered.

Mirelith didn't wait for further explanation. She was already moving, her mind racing. When she reached the critical section of the main tent, her eyes locked onto Caius. He was slumped against a cot, blood soaking through his armor. The commanding presence he usually exuded was gone, replaced by something alarmingly fragile. His face was pale, a deep gash running from his shoulder to his chest.

"Caius," she breathed, her composure wavering for a fraction of a second. But years of training snapped her into action. "Hot water, clean cloths, and the strongest salve we have—now!" she barked at the assistants.

As they scrambled, Mirelith knelt beside him, her hands deftly unbuckling his armor. "Caius," she said firmly, leaning close. "Stay with me. Can you hear me?"

His head lifted slightly, his glassy eyes meeting hers. "Mirelith," he murmured, a faint smile ghosting his lips. "You came."

"Of course I did," she snapped, though the softness in her voice betrayed her concern. "Now stop talking and let me work."

As she peeled away the blood-soaked armor, the extent of his injuries became horrifyingly clear. The gash was dangerously close to his heart, and his torso was mottled with bruises. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the cot. Her chest tightened, but she shoved her emotions aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"This is going to hurt," she warned as she cleaned the wound. His faint winces tugged at her, but she didn't stop.

"You've got a gentle touch," he rasped, his tone laced with faint humor.

She shot him a sharp look. "You're losing too much blood. Don't waste your energy on jokes."

"I've had worse," he muttered.

"That's not funny," she snapped, her voice trembling slightly.

As she began stitching the wound, Caius gripped the edge of the cot, his knuckles white. Despite the pain, his gaze never left her face. "You're remarkable," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Mirelith froze, the needle hovering above his skin. Her throat tightened. "Don't," she said quietly. "Don't say things like that."

"It's true," he insisted, his tone earnest. "You've always been remarkable. I see that now. Too late, perhaps, but I see it."

She resumed stitching, her movements precise but shaky. "Focus on healing," she said curtly, though her voice had softened. The tent fell silent except for the murmurs outside as she finished dressing the wound.

When she was done, she exhaled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "You'll live," she said, her tone brisk. "But no heroics. Rest, and let yourself heal."

Caius smirked faintly. "You're starting to sound like Marvic."

"Unfortunately," she replied, gathering her supplies. "I'll check on you later. Don't do anything stupid in the meantime."

As she turned to leave, his hand caught her wrist. "Mirelith," he said softly, regret heavy in his voice. "I'm sorry."

She froze, her back to him. Her heart clenched, but she didn't look back. "You've said that before," she said quietly. "It doesn't change anything."

"I know," he replied. "But I'll keep saying it. As many times as it takes."

She pulled her hand free and left without another word.

Later That Night

Caius found Mirelith bent over a table piled with bandages, her fingers moving with mechanical precision. The dim light from the lantern above cast shadows across her face, accentuating the exhaustion etched into every line of her features. Her shoulders were taut, and her movements, though efficient, lacked the usual grace he had come to associate with her. There was something about the rigid set of her frame, the lifeless rhythm of her work, that stirred a pang of worry in him.

"Mirelith," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet.

She didn't look up. "What do you want, Caius? I'm busy."

"You need to stop," he said bluntly.

Her hands stilled briefly over the bandages before resuming. "I don't have time to stop."

"You'll collapse if you keep this up," he countered, stepping closer.

She straightened, her eyes flashing with a familiar stubbornness. "You don't get to tell me what to do."

"Maybe not," he admitted, his voice softening. "But I'm not letting you do this alone."

Her gaze faltered, and for a moment, the weight she carried was evident in her emerald eyes. The flicker of vulnerability was brief, but it was enough for Caius to see the cracks beneath her carefully constructed armor. "If I stop, I'll start thinking about everyone I couldn't save," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Caius's heart clenched at her words. He had seen the same haunted look in his soldiers, the same guilt that kept them awake at night. It was a cruel burden, one he knew all too well. "Mirelith," he said gently, placing a hand on her arm. "You've done everything you can for them. More than anyone else would. But if you keep pushing yourself like this, you won't just collapse. You'll break."

Her lips trembled faintly, but she shook her head, her voice sharp. "I don't have the luxury of breaking. I'm the only one who—"

"You're not the only one," he interrupted firmly. "War takes its toll on all of us. Soldiers, healers, commanders—none of us are immune. We've all seen things we'll never forget. But you don't have to carry this alone. Let someone else help—even if it's just for tonight."

The room fell into silence, the weight of his words hanging between them. Mirelith's jaw tightened, and for a moment, Caius thought she might lash out again. But then her shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her as a shaky breath escaped her lips.

"Fine," she said softly, her voice tinged with exhaustion. "But only for a few hours."

"That's all I ask," Caius replied, his tone gentle but resolute.

He guided her to a nearby cot, his movements careful as though she might shatter if pushed too hard. Mirelith sat down, her body tense, her hands resting in her lap. She looked down at her calloused fingers, stained with blood and salve, and let out a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul.

"I hate this," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "The waiting, the helplessness. Watching them suffer and knowing I can't save them all."

Caius pulled a stool close, sitting beside her. "It's a weight none of us should have to bear alone," he said quietly. "But we do it because we have to. Because if we don't, who will?"

Mirelith glanced at him, her eyes searching his face. "Do you ever think about them? The ones who didn't make it?"

"Every day," Caius replied without hesitation. "Their faces, their voices—they never leave me. But I've learned that carrying their memory doesn't mean carrying their guilt. I did what I could. So did you."

She looked away, her expression clouded. "It doesn't feel like enough."

"It never does," Caius admitted. "But that's the cruel reality of war. All we can do is keep going, one step at a time. And we can't do that if we let the weight crush us."

Mirelith's hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white. "I don't know how to let it go."

"You don't have to do it all at once," he said, his voice steady. "Start by letting yourself rest. Just for tonight."

She closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling in a slow, uneven rhythm. For a moment, she seemed on the verge of breaking again, but then she nodded. "Alright," she whispered. "Just for tonight."

Caius stayed by her side as she lay back on the cot, her movements hesitant as though she didn't quite trust herself to relax. He watched over her, his own exhaustion pushed aside by the resolve hardening in his chest. Mirelith's burdens were heavy, but he would make sure she didn't carry them alone.