The canvas of the tent swayed gently, lifted by the evening wind. A golden light filtered through the seams, casting trembling reflections on the ground — like the shadows of an ancient fire. Dylan hesitated at the threshold, then pulled the flap aside.

The air inside smelled of clean linen, disinfectant, and human fatigue. Maggie was asleep — or pretending to be. Her face, pale under the lamp's glow, looked both younger and harder. Strands of hair clung to her forehead, and her shallow breathing traced a fragile rhythm.

Dylan stood there, motionless, as if afraid to disturb a painting.

Five months.

Five months running, hiding, fighting everything except himself. And now she was there, within reach, yet separated from him by an invisible wall — the weight of what he had become.

"You planning to watch me sleep all night?"

Her voice, rough but clear, cut through the silence like a dull blade.

He managed a tired smile. "I was just making sure you were still breathing."

"Disappointed that I am?" she shot back without opening her eyes.

He finally moved closer, crouching by the bed.

"You know I'm not."

She turned her head toward him. Her half-open eyes gleamed with soft irony. "You look awful, Dylan. Even for a ghost."

"I've been worse," he muttered.

He was lying, of course. He had never been this exhausted — or this alive.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the camp's distant murmurs — a hammer, a voice, the step of a soldier. Ordinary sounds, almost unreal after the night they'd survived.

Maggie raised a hand slowly, hesitated, then rested it against his cheek.

"Five months… and you come back covered in blood and shadows. That's you, all right."

He held her hand gently, as one handles fragile things.

"You angry at me?"

"For what? Leaving me here, or not dying out there?"

He lowered his gaze. She sighed.

"I'm angry you said nothing. That you just disappeared like a ghost."

"I had to go."

"Yes, but you could have warned me."

She shifted painfully, propping herself up. "I'd rather have hated you than mourned you."

Her words fell without anger — just truth. Dylan didn't answer. He watched her, and in her tired eyes he found a tenderness he didn't remember deserving.

"I've done things, Maggie. Things I can't explain."

"And I've survived here without knowing if you were still breathing. We're even."

A laugh escaped him — brief, nervous. She smiled faintly.

For an instant, the world was simple again: two people, one breath, a flickering lamp.

But simplicity never lasts.

"Alka…" he began.

"I know. Elisa told me."

He nodded. "She didn't kill us because she wanted to leave me the memory. A message."

"Then listen to it," Maggie said calmly. "But don't let it rule you. You've got that look again — the one from before… the one anger eats."

He tried to speak, but she placed a finger on his lips.

"Not now. Just stay. We'll deal with the rest tomorrow."

Dylan breathed deeply, eyes closing.

The silence between them grew soft, familiar. Outside, the night took a breath, and somewhere, a lone bird sang above the camp.

He stayed there for a long time, watching over her without a word, as if Maggie's presence alone could keep Alka's shadows at bay.

But deep down, he knew peace was only a reprieve.

And dawn, this time, would not be kind.

The lamp hissed faintly, casting trembling halos across the canvas. The air smelled of iron and skin. Dylan hadn't moved. He felt Maggie's breath against his hand — steady, a little too warm.

Fatigue had wrapped their bodies in a slow, fragile calm.

She opened her eyes again, slowly. Her pupils caught the light.

"You're not sleeping?" she murmured.

He gave a quiet laugh. "I almost forgot how."

She reached toward him, brushing the scar on his neck. "That one — I hadn't seen it."

"A souvenir."

"From a victory?"

"A retreat."

She nodded, unsurprised. "As always."

Dylan sat beside the bed, a hand resting on the rough blanket over her knee.

She watched him for a long moment, then sighed. "You know, I imagined you differently when you came back."

"Better dressed?"

She laughed — a weak but real sound. "Alive. More whole."

He stayed silent, caught off guard by her simplicity.

She added, softer, "But I guess no one really comes back whole from there."

Silence again — thick yet calm.

Dylan lowered his head; his forehead brushed the back of his own hand.

Maggie slipped her fingers through his hair, slow and tender, almost maternal — yet laced with something older, more wounded.

"I missed you," she murmured.

The words escaped her like a confession.

He lifted his head, surprised.

"Me too."

He wasn't lying — and she knew it.

But in his voice there was no warmth of easy love, only a weight — fear maybe, or that bitter clarity born of too much survival.

She withdrew her hand, placing it on her chest as if to shield herself from what she'd just said.

"You haven't changed, Dylan. Just… more emptiness in your eyes."

"And you, more courage in yours."

She smiled faintly. "That's not courage. That's habit."

A long breath passed between them. The tent's canvas barely moved, as though the wind itself hesitated to enter.

Maggie sank deeper under her covers, her eyelids heavy.

"Stay a little longer. Not to talk. Just… stay."

He nodded and sat closer, his back against the wooden floor.

She closed her eyes, her breathing slowly settling.

Dylan remained, silent, eyes fixed on the halo of light above her. He didn't know if he was guarding her — or if, even asleep, she was still keeping him from falling apart.

The night stretched on — peaceful, deceitful.

At one point, he thought he heard, far away, the low hum of an essence still pulsing beneath the earth.

Alka.

Even here, she left her mark — subtle, persistent.

Dylan rose at last, quietly, without a sound.

He looked at Maggie one last time: her fingers slack on the blanket, the light grazing her lashes, the calm breath.

A faint smile crossed his lips — part promise, part farewell.

Then he lifted the tent flap.

Daylight was breaking, washing the camp clean of its shadows.

The air smelled of dust, sweat, and the promise of another fight.

Dylan took a deep breath.

He was not the same man who had left.

And the world outside seemed ready to make him pay for what he had become.

The morning air carried that scent of cold water and iron — the kind that lingers over camps waking after fear.

Dylan stepped out slowly, letting the canvas fall behind him. The ground still clung to his boots, muddy with dew and dried blood.

In the distance, the camp was already alive. Voices, hammers, hurried silhouettes between the palisades — routine returning like a survival instinct.

He sat on a crate, a little apart. The dying fire of a bivouac warmed his hands.

The flames crackled softly, releasing a gray smoke that drifted into the wind.

Everything seemed calm. Too calm.

His gaze wandered over the tents, the watchtowers, the half-torn flags hanging limp.

Every corner breathed exhaustion.

The victory they carried home looked more like an absence. Another one.

Alka hadn't just taken ground — she had taken something from them. Something he couldn't name.

A sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.

A camp boy, barely fifteen, ran past with a bucket of water. He gave Dylan a shy nod before vanishing toward the medical tents.

Dylan raised a hand vaguely in return.

He remembered when he too had carried buckets, thinking wars were won with goodwill and strong arms.

Now he knew — war thrived on what you lost along the way.

He looked up.

Beyond the camp, the hills stretched to the horizon, pale green streaked with gray. Further still, Pilaf's walls gleamed faintly through the mist.

They said the city never slept — it did.

But its dreams were full of chains.

Dylan pulled from his pocket the anima gem he still carried — a dirty, cracked shard, veined with dark red.

He turned it between his fingers.

It pulsed faintly, like a sick heart.

Alka had left her trace. Not visible — but alive.

He could feel it in his palm, a cold shiver.

He thought of Maggie's warmth, her trembling voice, the weariness in her eyes.

And of Elisa, nearby, too lucid not to sense what they had stirred.

He felt caught between two shores: tenderness and vengeance.

Neither offered refuge.

The wind rose, sweeping away the smoke.

Sparks lifted into the air, dying one by one.

Dylan followed their dance until none remained.

And in that brief silence, he understood — there would be no more running.

No more mere survival.

Something had shifted in the night.

He pocketed the gem.

His reflection in the metal of his bracer showed a face he barely recognized — thinner, older, eyes like shards of glass.

But deep inside, a light still burned. Not faith. Not hope.

Something else.

A dirty, stubborn fire.

A will.

"War hasn't changed," he muttered to himself. "But I have."

Behind him, the camp was stirring. Orders shouted, mounts snorting, scouts readying for the next departure.

The world turned, indifferent to his silent vows.

Dylan drew one last breath of cold air, then rose.

He cast a look toward the tent where Maggie slept, then to the towers where Elisa and Julius were surely already planning the next move.

And he started walking.

Slow steps — but solid.

The kind that belong to those who have stopped retreating.