The war tent was heavy with tension.
Maps stretched across the long oak table, marked with ink, blood-red lines, and hastily drawn symbols. Candles flickered against thick canvas walls, their trembling light casting restless shadows upon hardened faces.
Generals stood in rigid silence.
Advisors murmured in low, urgent tones.
And at the center of it all…
Selara sat.
Still.
Silent.
Untouched by the storm raging around her.
"They murdered our commander unborn child," one councilman declared sharply. "This is not merely tragedy — this is an insult. A provocation."
"The enemy must pay."
"They cannot be forgiven."
"They will not be forgiven."
Voices rose like clashing steel, echoing through the chamber with growing ferocity. Words of vengeance filled the air, thick and suffocating.
Yet Selara heard none of it.
Her gaze rested somewhere far beyond the tent walls, beyond the battlefield, beyond even the war itself.
Lost.
Empty.
A hollow ache had replaced the fire that once defined her.
Because this grief was not like war.
War could be fought.
This…
This could not.
Aren stood near the edge of the council.
Watching her.
Always watching her.
His chest tightened painfully.
She had not spoken since the council began. Had not moved. Had barely even breathed.
And the silence terrified him more than any battlefield ever had.
This is my fault.
The thought repeated endlessly in his mind, merciless and unrelenting.
I should have protected her.
I should have seen the danger.
I am a medic. I save lives.
Yet I could not save hers.
His hands curled slowly at his sides.
Because beneath his composed exterior, guilt devoured him.
He had held her while she wept.
Had whispered reassurances.
Had watched hope fade.
And now…
Now she looked like a statue carved from sorrow.
Unreachable.
Untouchable.
Breaking.
"The enemy camp will be crushed," a general announced coldly. "We will not negotiate."
Selara did not react.
Did not blink.
Did not speak.
But Aren saw it —
That faint tremor in her fingers.
That microscopic fracture in her armor of silence.
And it shattered him.
Because no victory could repair this wound.
No revenge could resurrect what was lost.
Far away…
Within golden palace walls…
Another heart broke.
Ophelia wept quietly, her delicate frame trembling as she clung to the king.
Tears soaked into the rich fabric of his uniform.
"I cannot bear it…" she whispered.
The king held her firmly, one hand resting protectively against her back.
"Selara is strong."
Ophelia shook her head, sobbing softly.
"She has always been strong… but strength does not make one immune to pain."
Her fingers tightened against his chest.
"My sister… my poor Selara…"
The Crown Prince's expression softened.
Grief touched even those untouched by the battlefield.
Loss respected no borders.
"I wish I could be there for her," Ophelia whispered through tears. "To hold her… to tell her she is not alone…"
"You already are," he murmured gently. "Through your letters."
Ophelia's sobs quieted, though her sorrow did not.
Because distance had become its own cruelty.
A helplessness she could neither fight nor command.
Back on the battlefield…
The council continued.
Strategies formed.
Revenge solidified.
War demanded blood for blood.
Yet Selara remained motionless.
Trapped within memories that no sword could cut through.
Dreams that would never breathe.
A future erased before it began.
And Aren…
Aren could only stand there.
Watching.
Breaking.
Blaming himself for a tragedy neither of them yet knew had been carefully orchestrated.