Despite the rain, he heard the noise of the clattering of weapons and footsteps approaching. Without waiting for his mind to fully understand what was going on, he called the camp into attention. They rolled out of their blankets in a panic; only he and a few others were ready to face the coming men. The Mede moved slowly in a group, not one broke off from the rest to charge at the small number they had ready.

There was still time for Eugenides to warn the others and to take care of one last thing. His eyes searched for his destination quickly and he started walking quickly toward her tent, only to have his father block his path.

"What are you doing?" his father asked, as if he didn't already know.

He shook his head. "Just warn the others."

His father nodded and ran toward the other men who were unaware of the impending defeat.

Eugenides couldn't help but sigh, half in frustration and half in disappointment, as he unsheathed his weapon in preparation for the attack. He was angry, but he couldn't bring himself to be angry at her, even if he wanted to be. It wasn't her fault the Mede were heroically rescuing her. It wasn't her fault that they would tighten the noose around her neck either.

He reached the tent, ignoring the guard who remained posted at the entrance. He quickly pushed away the cloth of the doorway and stepped inside the tent. She was sitting up on her bed, a knot of blankets immobilizing her legs and feet. It was safe enough to approach without fearing any kind of retaliation from her.

With the dim light of the lantern hanging at the tent entrance he could see her face, as cold as ice and as hard as stone, beautiful but cruel. Still, he could see through all that. He saw a jewel too precious to give up; someone fighting the urge to look afraid; someone, he realized, that could never believe his love and love him in return. He suddenly remembered the unsheathed blade in his hand, but he didn't put it down. For some reason, he wanted her to be afraid. He wanted to see a sign that she could feel, that she was human.

"What luck you have," he said to her, finding it hard to hide the acidity in his voice.

When she didn't move, it made him all the more infuriated. Couldn't she humor him once, just once? Wanting to see her react to something, he moved closer to her side, but she only lifted her chin up and tucked the fear further away from sight. Without thinking about it, without realizing what he was doing he bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips. She kicked and struggled, so he pulled away, leaving before she could take out her fury on him.

He was satisfied to get that reaction from her but part of him died during those few moments. It had dawned on him—how much she hated him and how much he would suffer in the next few days before finally dying and she wouldn't care. He would just be another enemy to Attolia, an executed threat from the throne.

Still, at least he knew that his effort to reach out to her wasn't in vain. If she was truly human a part of her would've felt something when he took his stolen kiss, a part of her that could see that he wasn't lying. It was that part of her that would remain his only hope during the coming nights in the Attolian dungeon; his only source of hope that she could ever believe him.

He joined the rest of his group, raising his sword as he ran and tucked the scene away in his mind for when he really needed it. With the losing battle coming to an end, it wasn't going to be long until he would need to remember—remember the Attolia he saw that night.