Lysandre Valemont

The wind cut through the battlefield like an invisible blade, and Lysandre felt every gust pierce the cracks of his shattered armor, carrying with it the metallic scent of fresh blood and the smoke of dying fires. He stood among the wreckage of shields, broken spears, and bodies that no longer moved, his eyes sharp despite the heavy fatigue pooling in his muscles. Every breath was controlled, a habit trained since childhood to never betray weakness, even when his chest burned and his shoulder throbbed beneath his torn cloak.

He tightened his grip on his sword, feeling the wet leather slip slightly beneath his fingers, adjusting his hold with an automatic motion. The field before him seemed endless—an expanse of mud and silence where the war still echoed in his head, even after the last scream had faded into the night. Lysandre tilted his head just enough to brush away the hair stuck to his forehead, blinking against the thin rain that began to fall, mixing with sweat and bloodstains he couldn't tell were his own or not.

When he moved forward, he did so with an upright, proud posture, as if the weight of the lineage he carried remained intact. Every movement was calculated, measured—not just to fight, but to be seen—as an heir, a symbol, an inevitable enemy. Yet, something in the air made him hesitate within, even as his body remained obedient.

The clash of blades vibrated through his arm as he struck, the impact traveling up from his elbow to his wounded shoulder. He did not recoil. He twisted his wrist, pressing against the opponent's sword with enough force to compel them to give ground. He moved closer than necessary, feeling the warmth of another’s breath mingle with the night’s chill, his eyes fixed, watching for every micro-expression, every minor flaw that could mean victory.

Yet, noticing the hesitation on the other side, Lysandre’s brow furrowed slightly. He knew that pattern. He had seen it before. He had felt it before. A detail too small for any common soldier to notice, but impossible for him to miss. His blade scraped the opposing armor—not in a lethal strike, but in a movement almost restrained, as if his own body refused to go further.

Lysandre let out a weak, bitter laugh. “Every time we fight... you hesitate.”

He stepped back, not out of necessity, but by instinct, feeling the uneven ground beneath his boot. A stone hidden in the mud made him lose his balance for an instant, and the impact of falling to his knees was dry and humiliating, knocking the air from his lungs. The sword slipped from his fingers for an eternal second before he could recover it, and in that interval, he felt the cold tip of another blade touch his neck.

Lysandre slowly raised his face.

The rain was falling harder now, streaming down his temples, tracing his jawline, and dripping onto the blood-stained ground. He kept his gaze firm and proud, refusing to beg, even with his heart thundering in his chest. If this were to be the end, he would not allow himself to be remembered as someone who bowed his head.

A low laugh escaped his lips—short, bitter, born more of exhaustion than defiance. He raised his hand slowly, with enough care not to seem like a threat, his fingers trembling slightly from the accumulated strain of battle. Instead of pushing the blade away, he grasped the wrist that held it, feeling the warmth seep through the soaked glove—a contact that burned more than any open wound.

The touch made him catch his breath for a second. There was something there he wouldn’t name aloud, something he had carried since their first encounters—since the looks held too long in diplomatic halls and the words swallowed in stone corridors. The war had shaped the expected hatred, but it had also hollowed out something deeper, more dangerous.

He spoke then, his voice low and hoarse, nearly swallowed by the sound of the rain, yet firm enough to pierce the heavy silence of the field.

“How deep is your love?”

The phrase came out like a naked blade—without protection, without pride, without a kingdom. Lysandre did not look away after saying it. He remained there, on his knees in the mud, holding that wrist as if it were the only solid thing in a world on the brink of collapse. He did not try to rise. He did not try to strike. He only waited, feeling the weight of everything that could not be said accumulate between them, while the rain continued to fall, washing away the blood, but not the war pulsing inside his chest.