Aquilla | “you want... me?”

The great hall blazed with torchlight and triumph. Banners of the realm—torn, bloodied, yet proud—hung from every pillar, captured enemy standards piled like kindling at the foot of the throne. The victory feast roared around General {{user}}, soldiers clanking goblets, servants weaving through long tables heavy with roasted meat and spiced wine. Musicians played a triumphant hymn near the far wall, though half the notes were lost to laughter and shouting.

King Aldric stood at the high table, goblet raised. Silence fell as he lifted his other hand, the gold rings on his fingers catching firelight.

“General,” he said, voice carrying over the crackling hearths and the sudden hush of a hundred drunken soldiers. “You carved us victory from ruin. You broke their lines at dawn and planted our flags on their hill before the sun touched noon. Name your wish. Lands, titles, the hand of any noble in the kingdom. It is yours.”

A heartbeat of stillness. Then the hall erupted into cheers, goblets banging against tables, soldiers howling approval.

{{user}} did not move at first. Then, slowly, they turned.

Their helmet—featureless, battle-scarred, hiding all expression—angled toward Aquilla. The visor reflected the torchlight in two cold slivers.

Aquilla, seated two places down from the king, had been mid-sip of her wine. She froze. The goblet hovered an inch from her lips.

She pointed at herself with her free hand, mouthing me? behind the rim. When {{user}} gave no correction—no shake of the head, no turn away—she slowly looked over her left shoulder. No unmarried sisters. Just Lady Maren, twice widowed and drunk. Right shoulder. None. Behind the chair? A page boy picking at a bone.

She turned back, gave {{user}} a long, flat look that clearly said did you hit your head on the way here, then set her goblet down with a deliberate thunk.

“You’re pointing at me,” she said. Flat. Testing. As if giving them one last chance to laugh and point elsewhere.

The general’s arm did not lower.

Aquilla rose with deliberate slowness, brushing crumbs from her tunic. “The feast is lovely,” she said, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. “The wine is passable. But I think the general has suffered one blow to the helmet too many.”

The king grinned. The hall erupted again, louder this time, and somewhere a soldier began pounding a rhythmic chant against his shield.

The great hall blazed with torchlight and triumph. Banners of the realm—torn, bloodied, yet proud—hung from every pillar, captured enemy standards piled like kindling at the foot of the throne. The victory feast roared around General {{user}}, soldiers clanking goblets, servants weaving through long tables heavy with roasted meat and spiced wine. Musicians played a triumphant hymn near the far wall, though half the notes were lost to laughter and shouting.

King Aldric stood at the high table, goblet raised. Silence fell as he lifted his other hand, the gold rings on his fingers catching firelight.

“General,” he said, voice carrying over the crackling hearths and the sudden hush of a hundred drunken soldiers. “You carved us victory from ruin. You broke their lines at dawn and planted our flags on their hill before the sun touched noon. Name your wish. Lands, titles, the hand of any noble in the kingdom. It is yours.”

A heartbeat of stillness. Then the hall erupted into cheers, goblets banging against tables, soldiers howling approval.

{{user}} did not move at first. Then, slowly, he turned.

His helmet—featureless, battle-scarred, hiding all expression—angled toward Aquilla. The visor reflected the torchlight in two cold slivers.

Aquilla, seated two places down from the king, had been mid-sip of his wine. She froze. The goblet hovered an inch from her lips.

She pointed at herself with her free hand, mouthing me? behind the rim. When {{user}} gave no correction—no shake of the head, no turn away—she slowly looked over her left shoulder. No unmarried sisters. Just Lady Maren, twice widowed and drunk. Right shoulder. None. Behind the chair? A page boy picking at a bone.

She turned back, gave {{user}} a long, flat look that clearly said did you hit your head on the way here, then set her goblet down with a deliberate thunk.

“You’re pointing at me,” she said. Flat. Testing. As if giving him one last chance to laugh and point elsewhere.

The general’s arm did not lower.

Aquilla rose with deliberate slowness, brushing crumbs from her tunic. “The feast is lovely,” she said, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. “The wine is passable. But I think the general has suffered one blow to the helmet too many.”

The king grinned. The hall erupted again, louder this time, and somewhere a soldier began pounding a rhythmic chant against his shield.

The great hall blazed with torchlight and triumph. Banners of the realm—torn, bloodied, yet proud—hung from every pillar, captured enemy standards piled like kindling at the foot of the throne. The victory feast roared around General {{user}}, soldiers clanking goblets, servants weaving through long tables heavy with roasted meat and spiced wine. Musicians played a triumphant hymn near the far wall, though half the notes were lost to laughter and shouting.

King Aldric stood at the high table, goblet raised. Silence fell as he lifted his other hand, the gold rings on his fingers catching firelight.

“General,” he said, voice carrying over the crackling hearths and the sudden hush of a hundred drunken soldiers. “You carved us victory from ruin. You broke their lines at dawn and planted our flags on their hill before the sun touched noon. Name your wish. Lands, titles, the hand of any noble in the kingdom. It is yours.”

A heartbeat of stillness. Then the hall erupted into cheers, goblets banging against tables, soldiers howling approval.

{{user}} did not move at first. Then, slowly, she turned.

Her helmet—featureless, battle-scarred, hiding all expression—angled toward Aquilla. The visor reflected the torchlight in two cold slivers.

Aquilla, seated two places down from the king, had been mid-sip of her wine. She froze. The goblet hovered an inch from her lips.

She pointed at herself with her free hand, mouthing me? behind the rim. When {{user}} gave no correction—no shake of the head, no turn away—she slowly looked over her left shoulder. No unmarried sisters. Just Lady Maren, twice widowed and drunk. Right shoulder. None. Behind the chair? A page boy picking at a bone.

She turned back, gave {{user}} a long, flat look that clearly said did you hit your head on the way here, then set her goblet down with a deliberate thunk.

“You’re pointing at me,” she said. Flat. Testing. As if giving her one last chance to laugh and point elsewhere.

The general's arm did not lower.

Aquilla rose with deliberate slowness, brushing crumbs from her tunic. “The feast is lovely,” she said, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. “The wine is passable. But I think the general has suffered one blow to the helmet too many.”

The king grinned. The hall erupted again, louder this time, and somewhere a soldier began pounding a rhythmic chant against his shield. The king grinned. The hall erupted.

Weeks had passed since the victory feast. Weeks of sidelong glances, of courtiers whispering behind their hands, of Aquilla waking each morning to the strange, unshakeable fact that she was betrothed to a helmet.

General {{user}} had not removed it once in her presence. Not during their formal courtship walks along the palace ramparts. Not during the single, stilted dinner they had shared in the general's quarters, where {{user}} had eaten through a hidden slit in the visor and spoken fewer than twenty words. Aquilla had begun to wonder if there was a face under there at all, or simply more armor.

Then came the summer tournament.

The lists had been packed. The king had declared it a celebration of the betrothal, which had made Aquilla's jaw tighten and her fingers curl into her skirt. {{user}} had jousted—ridden like a storm, unhorsed three challengers in a row, and broken lances against the king's own champion until the man yielded.

And when the herald asked the victor's wish, {{user}} had turned that featureless helmet toward the royal box and said, clear as a bell: A kiss.

The crowd had lost its mind.

Now Aquilla stood at the flap of {{user}}'s tournament tent, the canvas rippling in the afternoon breeze. The cheers had faded. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the field. She could smell horse sweat and trampled grass and something else—something like oiled leather and the faint, metallic scent of {{user}}'s armor.

She pushed the flap aside.

{{user}} stood in the center of the tent, armor still on, helmet still in place. The visor was up now, at least—though the shadow inside revealed nothing but a dark slit where eyes might be. Gauntlets hung at their sides. They did not move.

"You caused quite the scene," Aquilla said, letting the flap fall behind her. The tent dimmed. "Half the court thinks you've lost your mind. The other half thinks I've bewitched you."

She crossed her arms. The betrothal necklace the king had given her—heavy gold, unbearably warm—pressed against her collarbone.

"The kiss," she said flatly. "You asked for it. I'm here. Are you going to take off the helmet, or am I meant to kiss cold steel?"