A/N: I've corrected one or two typos in the previous chapters. Thanks for the reminder! We're now getting into the war proper (just before the series starts) and our protagonists come to slightly different realisations.

Chapter 4: Felling Thunder

The Breach, last Winter's Turn, the eve Thunder fell:

The dragon humans called Thunder had a voice that clove the earth, swallowed legions whole. His breath was fire, his claws lightning, and his eye that of a storm; cunning, calm, and devastatingly precise.

The forces of Katolis were being routed. There was no glory in this death. Fire consumed them from below and above; no escape in this hell of brimstone and dragon's breath.

Men and women cowered in Thunder's shadow as he reared to strike again – a blow that would cleave hundreds of resident souls from their hapless, armour-clad bodies. And yet, amongst the screams and the blood and the rushing emptiness of oncoming death, a single commander in blue-accented armour stood straight, and still, and watched.

Gren stared up into the jaws of death and could think of nothing but Thunder's majesty, even as a voice shouted words that pierced the air and the sky turned purple–

But that was later.

His road to the black sand and molten rivers of the Breach there, at the mercy of Thunder's maw, began with the passing of the Queen of Katolis.

Queen Sarai's death brought about a watershed in the war between the human kingdoms and Xadia; hastened its crest like the sharp eastern wind that brought waves across the sea. And like all waves, eventually, it would fall.

After her death, Katolis strengthened its forces at the border like never before. It was fueled by a hatred to the likes of which none had seen since the original Exile of humans; the armies of Katolis raged against the forces of Xadia for the loss of their Queen.

The Standing Battalion had held an outpost a few leagues from the Breach itself as long as human history could remember; a permanent camp that nevertheless could be dismantled and moved at a moment's notice.

Until Lord Viren suggested otherwise: that a camp would not stand against the combined might of the elves, should they ever wish to abandon their defensive methods and instead invade.

At the time, Gren knew Amaya was of the opinion that no single fortress could stand under the combined weight of six elven races, but there was nevertheless logic in Viren's arguments.

The stronghold at the Breach was completed a year after Sarai's death; a grey-stoned, thick-walled fortress with stout merlons and deep-rooted towers, the flags of the uneven towers of Katolis and the sharp insignia of the Standing Battalion tall on its highest tower; a sneer at Xadia itself, only a single league past the roiling fire of the Breach.

General Amaya had been given a set of rooms within the keep; at her request, her interpreter and closest subordinate was given the rooms beside hers, with a single door between them that locked from her side.

Gren had blushed like a ripe strawberry (her words, not his) when he found out, but he could see the convenience in Amaya's request, and having tested the lock between their rooms and found it very secure from his General's side, decided to consider it not so different as when their quarters had been two tents, side by side. There was not so much different about two paces of dirt as compared to a single door, after all.

Or that was what he told himself.

It was only a scant month before the battle that struck at the heart of Xadia that Gren realised otherwise.

He found himself with an hour to spare; Amaya had decided to train alone that morning – to correct an inadequacy in her shield-arm after a recent injury, she had said. Gren had privately thought that there was nothing amiss about her shield-form, but had wisely decided not to contradict her. His General's displeasure at her own performance could easily transfer, and as awe-inspiring as Amaya was when she was angry, Gren knew from experience that it was a daunting thing to be her target.

Not that he would love her any less for it.

Over the years, keeping his heart bound had grown…not easier, exactly. He was simply more practiced at it; stepping out of their hugs the moment he sensed Amaya loosening her hold, not initiating physical contact with her unless absolutely necessary, keeping the words he wanted to say locked deep, where they could not reach his lips or hands.

They had grown closer after the Queen's death – they had never spoken of the Queen's funeral and their shared grief after, but Amaya had expressed her gratitude in a hundred different ways; in the fond tilt of head when he sometimes looked up from a sheaf of parchment and found her looking at him, or her grin at his blush when she caught him looking at her – but Gren also knew that it was not yet time.

He had wondered, years ago when he realised the depth of his regard for her, whether those sentiments would ever fade; whether the stirrings in his heart were indeed only a continuation of his initial hero-worship for his Commander and then General. He had been younger, then; that span of years where those who knew him well called him a man, while those who saw him from afar might still have mistakenly called him a boy.

Now, Gren was twenty-four, and he wore the rank of Commander with the ease and efficiency of well-used gloves. And, like the companionable silences that often settled between him and Amaya when they rode out together, where they needed not even sign language when they were as close to each other in mind as they were – his regard for her had only deepened until it seeped into every breath he took and every moment of his day. And it was because he respected her so much that he knew, now, that he would not act. Not yet.

And yet, still, there were days where his heart ached like the ever-present glow of the Breach, over the edge of the fortress walls.

Gren glanced up at the battlements as he crossed the courtyard. The fiery light of the molten river was a ruddy sanguine over the ramparts above; like blood seeping into the sky. It swallowed all moisture from the air, kept the men and women of the battalion constantly on edge.

In a way, Gren was pleased that his rooms had windows that opened eastward; towards the heart of Katolis, that which he strove to defend.

He crossed to the stables. It had been a long six months without leave and his longsuffering mare deserved some attention.

Gren had his hand on the stable doors and was about to push them open when he heard the voices.

It was a good thing he had ears so trained to pick up the exact sounds of spoken words; otherwise, he may well have continued in and missed the importance of the conversation altogether.

What he heard rooted him to the spot.

"What are you saying?" A young, female voice – one of their newer recruits, Gren identified – said. "You think there's something going on between the General and the Commander, then?"

"Well, obviously I do," another voice answered. "Do you ever see them apart?"

The first speaker snorted. "He's her interpreter, idiot. Why would you see them apart?"

Her friend barked a laugh, one which snapped into the air. Pressed against the door, head lowered to listen, Gren could almost imagine the shape of his lips as he spoke.

"Ha. Have you been in the upper levels of the keep yet?"

"No," his companion sighed, with the accompanying swish-swish that suggested long hair moving about her face. "Green recruits get stable-duty and yard-duty and drills. You know that."

A pause.

"Have you?" she said in a stage-whisper.

"Oh, yes," the second speaker said – and Gren could hear the arrogance in his voice – "The keeper of the messenger-birds sent me to deliver a letter to the General. I went all the way up to the General and Commander's chambers."

There was a scandalous note to the end of the recruit's sentence that nearly sent Gren barreling in in that moment; but he took a slow breath, squeezed his eyes shut. Loosened his hand on the ring of the stable door.

A shocked gasp within. "You mean chambers, as in plural, shared?"

The clinking of metal rings and leather; the sound of a shrug in full armour. "Well, I could see a half-open door in the General's chambers that led to the Commander's. Not that it seemed to matter, anyway. The Commander seemed right at home sitting beside her, papers and all."

"Maybe they're secretly married," the other said doubtfully.

Another snort. "They've got ten years between them. I think not. Anyhow, I thought General Amaya was as perfect as the stories told when I first came. Turns out she's as flawed as the rest of us, or worse–"

Whatever the recruit had been about to say was cut off by the sound of a door screaming in its hinges as it was smashed violently into the stone wall.

The recruits' faces drained of blood as they snapped towards the new figure, silhouetted against the red glow of the courtyard.

In another situation, Gren might have paused to consider his own frame of mind. But something had happened to his blood; it spun hot and bright and unfettered through his limbs. He glanced down at his fisted hands as he moved forward and was detachedly surprised that they were not crackling with lightning.

"Commander Gren," one of them squeaked. It was the one with the oh-so-delicate theory, by his voice. His green eyes were very, very wide.

Probably because Gren was the happy-go-lucky Commander of the Standing Battalion; the first to laugh, the last to frown. He treated each recruit with the respect and encouragement that Amaya had given him all those years ago when he was in their place.

Gren caught his reflection in the rippling surface of a watering trough. A stranger's face stared back at him; narrowed eyes, blue flame flickering in his cerulean irises.

"Recruit, is this your horse?" Gren said. Said, not asked, because it was more of a statement than a question.

"W-what?"

Gren took a single step closer. The recruit's back bumped into the front of the horse stall behind him.

"Is. This. Your. Horse."

"Yes, sir," the recruit stammered. His friend was standing quite still at attention, staring into the middle distance as if this was all a bad dream.

"Saddle it."

"What?" Shivering green eyes.

Gren sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. "Saddle it and get your sorry arse on it and ride to the Home Guard. You're done here."

"What do you mean I'm–"

"From this moment," Gren said, armour clinking dangerously as he edged closer – into the recruit's space, like a fox closing in on its prey – "You are no longer a member of the Standing Battalion."

The recruit's face blanched further, until he looked no more than a wilting scrap of parchment. "I'm sorry."

Gren had already been turning to the other recruit, but his eyes snapped back with icy intensity. "Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry," the recruit repeated, with the air of one who had been taught from childhood that any wrong deed need only be repaid with a word of insincere apology. His next words evidenced it. "I am sorry. Can't you just let it go this once, sir?" His face was a picture of confidence.

Oh, he was asking for it.

Gren's fists clenched. There was no point in striking him. And it would be inappropriate – he was their Commander.

He drew himself up. Squared his shoulders.

"General Amaya," he said, "Is honour, bravery, and kindness itself. She has given her life to Katolis. It is my honour and privilege to be her servant and voice."

The recruit's eyes slid away. Gren snapped his fingers in front of his youthful face, jarred that green gaze back to his. The other recruit flinched.

"Do not demean her name with your filth," he growled. "She is worth a thousand of you. And a hundred of me."

Oh, she was; more than anyone could deserve. Gren closed his eyes momentarily against the familiar ache.

A creak of iron hinges behind him; the female recruit squeaked out loud, eyes bulging, and her friend startled so badly he clanged his helm against the stall he was crowded against.

Gren spun on a heel.

Amaya still had one hand on the door. The other was holding her shield. Her sharp eyes took in the tableau at once: her thin-lipped Commander, the white-faced recruits, and the tension so thick that it was almost visible.

She leant her shield against the wall to free her hands. "What happened here?"

Gren's heels clicked together as he turned to face her, inclining his head sharply. He was never usually this formal, but given the context it was best to make a show of it.

"Disciplinary action," he signed in return. "These recruits were severely out of line." A pause. "So out of line that I think this recruit should be dismissed from duty."

The male recruit's gaze was following their conversation with the frantic air of someone who could only understand half of what was being said – in a conversation where his future was in the balance, no less.

Amaya's eyes narrowed. "Their actions?"

"They insulted you," Gren replied. He hid a wince. Stating it like that made it sound like a petty schoolyard thing.

Amaya's gaze softened momentarily before she raised her chin pointedly. "Thank you, Gren, but I can take a few insults."

"Not–" Gren closed his eyes briefly, broke off his signing, and turned to the recruits. "Stay put," he said with his voice. "I'll be back in a moment." He gave the worse of the pair a sharp glare to help that sink in.

The recruit gulped, but he could not quite hide his relief.

Gren jerked his head towards the yard, and Amaya nodded, moved out into the morning sun with him.

The door closed. The yard was empty; most of the Battalion was in the rear training fields, running drills. Gren was grateful for it.

"I know you can take a few insults," he began, fingers flicking with agitation. "But not these. I mean, you shouldn't have to take them."

Amaya was watching him with a strange expression on her face. She made as if to sign something, and then changed the shape of her fingers at the last moment. "Thank you, Gren. But we cannot dismiss soldiers for speaking ill of their commanding officers. It is a problem, but dismissing them would set a dangerous precedent."

Gren looked away. He had to admit she had a point.

A hand settled on his shoulder, so brief that it was barely there. Gren raised his head, but her hand had already slipped away.

"I think two months of kitchen duty and early-morning flag raisings should do it," Amaya said. A wicked smile flickered across her features. "I'll tell them myself and scare some sense into them."

Gren mustered up a grin in return, and moved into the stable after her.

In his distraction, he missed how his General glanced over her shoulder at him with gentle concern.

That evening, they took their evening meal as they usually did, in Amaya's quarters. Gren fiddled with his fork for most of it; participated in conversation without his usual enthusiasm. His hand kept worrying at the neck of his fork when he was not using his fingers to speak.

He knew he hadn't quite pulled off the impression of normalcy when he found himself being scrutinised quite thoroughly.

Amaya's dark eyes searched his face with both a general's keen insight and a friend's concern. Her leather tunic was a lighter, more practical outfit than the full armour she wore when she left the fortress, and Gren always thought it suited her well, framing her features like a simple, well-wrought blade as opposed to a silver-handled one. Gren was in a simple blue-edged tunic himself; formal enough should there be unexpected guests, but without the stifling collar of armour.

Amaya lowered her cup of wine.

Gren could see the moment she decided to ask the question; he purposefully put down his fork and spoke first.

"I'm sorry, I don't have much of an appetite," he said. His hands were quite steady. He was proud of that. "I think I'm going to go to bed early."

"Of course," Amaya replied. Then: "Are you alright, Gren?"

Gren smiled.

It hurt.

"Of course," he echoed. Crossing to the door between their rooms took no time at all; he paused with a hand on the handle, and took a breath. Turned.

"One more thing," he said – with his mouth, because the hand that was on the door had already begun to tremble – "I will be moving quarters tomorrow afternoon."

Amaya stared.

Gren looked pointedly at a spot somewhere around her feet.

Amaya's fingers rose off the table–

"It's for no particular reason," Gren added, quickly. "I just…think it would be best. Remember to lock your door."

Then he slipped through the door and closed it on Amaya's bewilderment.

His room was quite still in the evening air; moonlight filtered in through his open window, silhouetting the simple furnishings and the unmarked floors, and the edge of his hair as he leant against the door and lowered his head.

It was a long minute before he heard Amaya slide the lock closed, on the other side.

Gren stood there, head bowed, and imagined for the briefest of moments his General on the other side of the handspan of wood, her hand on the lock and a troubled expression on her face.

There was a bone-deep tiredness that spread from his chest to his limbs, but he did not wish to sleep.

He scrubbed a shivering hand over his face and crossed to the window instead.

Amaya had settled into bed and was staring at the ceiling when the moonlight-casted shadows shifted across her ceiling.

Her hand moved instantly under her pillow to the dagger there; her eyes flicked to the window just in time to catch a bare foot and a cloak edge flailing past the glass, kicking up fragments of stone and plaster.

She relaxed.

She'd know that climbing style anywhere.

Amaya slipped out from under the covers, grabbed a cloak, and padded to the window on bare feet.

Crisp night air filtered into the chamber as she unlocked the window. The stone was firm under her fingers as she felt for a handhold and swung herself out into the air. The yawning drop below did not deter her; she made her steady way up the side of the keep, without care for the stone dust that coated her pyjamas and cloak.

Up the last few spans and over the ramparts, the firm square of a merlon on either side; and then a ginger-haired head on the opposite side of this corner tower, staring at the ruddy glow of the Breach in the distance and the mountains of Xadia beyond.

Gren was sat between two merlons, legs dangling over the drop, one hand clutching his own cloak closed around his thin sleep clothing.

Something ached with Amaya at the sight; an unidentifiable emotion.

She moved over to him, stepping with more force than necessary to warn him of her presence; she could not hear the sound her feet made when they crossed the stone, but he could.

Gren startled and twisted around to look at her. His blue eyes glimmered in the starlight.

"Amaya," he said. Not General. And with his hands, not his mouth. That was a good sign.

She made a little shooing motion with her hand, and he shifted obligingly to allow her space beside him. Amaya squeezed herself into the narrow gap between the rough stone and her commander's warm presence with nary a care.

Gren was watching her with a wary look in his eyes – that expression that always seemed too similar to hidden pain, but which flickered at times across his face in moments like these – when they were alone and Amaya chose to hug him, or smile at him, or laugh.

It was inexplicable. But her friend was in pain, and she wished to help him heal.

"Something is troubling you," she began. "It's to do with those two recruits." She never was one for subtlety. Too many had tried to force her to live by it.

Gren leaned his head against the square of stone on his right with uncharacteristic exhaustion. He nodded.

Amaya watched him. He had positioned himself very carefully, she realised now. Slouched elegantly against the opposite rampart in what could be interpreted as tiredness but what was really steel-lined caution.

As far away from her as possible.

It…hurt.

Unexpectedly.

Not quite the presence of hurt itself; Amaya felt pain and hurt like any other person, but she was usually quite adept at hiding it. This, however, was…different.

But perhaps that was it.

This caution, the remark after evening meal earlier; the sharpness of his shoulders in the stable as he spun and saw her enter.

The reminder to lock the door between their chambers.

Oh, Gren.

"They were talking about you and I," she said. Her fingers were growing cold, but this did not deter her.

Gren closed his eyes briefly. Nodded again. Shifted a little as he slipped his hands out of his cloak to speak.

"I don't know if they really believed what they were saying," he said. "I walked in on them talking about us." He dropped his head for a moment, breath misting out of his lips in what Amaya knew had to be a sigh. "It would have been fine if it was just me. But they were specifically speaking of you."

It was unsurprising. All of it. The fact that people would guess the worst of them – because it was in their nature to do so – and the fact that Gren had reacted so very strongly to it.

Her best friend and her second; her interpreter and her voice.

"You shouldn't need to care," Amaya said, flicking a hand out mid-sentence to raise Gren's chin so he would meet her eyes. "We're not like that."

And just like that, the pain was back in Gren's eyes.

She watched his chest rise and fall, a slow breath.

"You're right, we're not," he said, and his hands were quite steady. "But I think we should care a little."

"Why?"

"Because you're the General of the Standing Battalion," he said, and as he spoke, his gaze drifted beyond her, to the blood-red glow of the Breach. "You are the strongest force Katolis has against Xadia, and you must be seen as such. From every aspect."

Anger flew through Amaya's hands. "No," she replied. "I will not be shaken by foolish rumours."

Gren's hands flashed across the space between them, caught hers briefly and then released them.

Cool air washed over the places where his warm fingers pressed into her knuckles.

"I know," he said. "But I should move quarters. And not only because of the rumours. Because of me."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think it's right that there should be a door directly between us," Gren continued cryptically. "I know you lock it. Others don't."

"That's ridiculous," Amaya said. "I don't see the point of locking it anyway."

"It isn't. And you should." Gren's head settled back against the merlon. "I'm not going far. Just one set of rooms down. I'll still be there at a moment's notice."

Amaya paused. Traced the shadows under Gren's eyes with a careful glance. "Is this what you want?" she eventually said.

His head shifted against the stone. She had a feeling that if he could, he would bury his face against it.

He nodded once.

"Alright," Amaya said. "If that's what you want."

Because that was all that mattered, in the end.

Even if there was a telltale spike of pain in her gut at the thought.

The night was cold, the stars and moon bright. The Breach was a roiling river of molten rock, steam rising into the velvety sky.

Amaya reached for Gren's hand. She was not sure why she did so, but his fingers wrapped around hers in silent apology.

She leaned her head on his shoulder to look up at the stars; she felt him hesitate, and then shift his arm around her.

And so it was atop the highest corner tower of the keep, with the Breach they guarded ahead and the endless sky above, that Amaya understood the curl of unease in her gut.

She would not give up her commander for anything in the world; anything short of Katolis itself, its king, or its princes.

He was her dearest, and at times only, friend.

The ground was afire, and the sky blazed with lightning.

Gren stumbled through a world dyed in three colours, and three colours only:

Red, for the flame-fed rock of the Breach; white-rimmed blue, for dragon-scale and gleaming fangs; grey, for ash and smoke and the bleached faces of the soldiers of Katolis, fallen at the feet of Thunder's power.

Gren was not supposed to be there.

He was supposed to be back at the fortress, as any non-combatant at the greatest battle of their lifetime was supposed to be; but as Thunder descended upon the Standing Battalion and gouged a wound in its formation comprised of dozens of mangled lives, Gren came to a decision.

He would face Amaya's fury later. In a battle such as this, she needed her interpreter.

A whistling sound far above, followed by the crackling of forming ice.

Gren looked up.

Thunder erupted out of the clouds, the king of dragons in all his glory, ice framing his bearded neck and gaping maw as he lanced towards the earth, fire streaming back from his open jaws.

The roar slammed into Gren's eardrums a moment later. He fell to his hands and knees on the scorching ground and screamed, hands at his ears.

Thunder's claws slammed into the ground a mere bowshot ahead, scattering soldiers like rats before him.

Gren pushed himself to his feet. Glimpsed a familiar gold and blue-edged shield beyond Thunder's wings, racing towards them.

Amaya.

A soldier screamed just ahead as the ground crumbled at the impact of Thunder's front paw; it swallowed the soldier whole, helmet, shield, and all.

Thunder's intelligent eyes found his.

Gren stood. Watched as death came for him in all its majesty, silver-blue scales and thunderous fire.

He glimpsed, beyond the deadly grace of the king of dragons, Amaya's grime-streaked face.

Their eyes met.

It should not have been possible, but they did.

Amaya's mouth opened as she stared at him. Gren could not hear her over the roar of the dragon and the crackle of lightning, but he thought that she must be screaming.

Thunder reared back, slammed his claws into the ground. The sky flashed purple as an otherworldly voice somewhere behind hissed words so dark and knotted they seemed unspeakable, and the world twisted–

Something scorchingly painful flashed through Gren's shoulder and down to his feet, and he knew no more.

Gren woke to the sound of hitching sobs.

He blinked up at the sky – grey, with the first light of dawn. Even that little luminance sent a spear of agony through his skull, and he hissed through clenched teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.

A hand touched his cheekbone – callouses familiar to him from years watching them in sign.

Gren opened his eyes properly.

Amaya was knelt by his side, one hand clamped tight around the pulse-point at his wrist, the other running a thumb over his cheekbone. She was no longer sobbing, but twin crystalline rivers ran down her cheeks.

Gren noted belatedly that the top half of her armour was gone; she was dressed in the teal, high-collared shirt that went under her usual armour.

It was only as he tried to take a deeper breath that the pain started.

He bit back a scream; every inch of his body from his crown to his toes ached, especially the shoulder and foot that had been hit by the blow earlier.

The fingers at his cheek and wrist disappeared.

Amaya's hands were moving.

"You weren't breathing," she said. "I couldn't find a pulse."

Gren blinked down at himself. His armour had been removed from waist-up, flung haphazardly by his feet in a – smoking? – pile. There was a sharp creased depression in the fabric of his shirt above the centre of his chest. When he breathed, his ribs ached.

This wasn't making sense.

There was a small mountain not too far away; a thing of crimson-coated silver-blue scales–

Thunder. The King of dragons was dead.

And then Amaya bent over him to curl her arms around his neck, and Gren understood even as he raised a stiff arm to rest across her back.

He imagined Amaya, shoving soldiers out of her way as she tore across the battlefield for her fallen commander; throwing down her shield and ripping the smoking breastplate and overtunic off him, feeling for a pulse and finding none; pressing both hands into his sternum, regular, strong, thirty compressions for every two breaths.

Now Gren thought about it, his lips hurt.

She must have pushed every breath into his lungs with desperation and fear; tearing off her own armour when it grew hot and stifling, forcing blood around his cooling body with nothing but her hands and her lungs and her determination.

Gren knew the chances; his hadn't been good.

This was nothing short of a miracle.

At this, his breath hitched. He fought to sit up, curled Amaya tighter into an embrace. She buried her face in his shoulder. There was a quiet vulnerability about her that he had never seen. Her non-armoured form was warm and alive, and her heartbeat strong against his own, binary stars that crashed into each other mid-orbit and refused to let go.

Gren pressed his face into her hair. Closed his eyes.

"I love you," he whispered.

She shifted back in his arms; she must have felt the vibrations but not known the words.

He read the question in her red-rimmed eyes.

Faced with his General like this, having cheated death, Gren almost said it; almost allowed her to lip-read the words he so wished to say.

But years of restraint did not stop here, she had said there was nothing between them, not even a month ago.

"I thank you," Gren said instead, and allowed her to pull him back into their embrace.

It hurt less than it did before, that lie, when they were drinking in each other's survival like this.

Around them, soldiers were stirring; groups were forming to tend to the wounded, individual soldiers pausing to stare at the body of the dragon. But soon that would lose its novelty, and they might turn to see their General and Commander–

It was Corvus, beard bloody and jerkin stained, who stepped quietly forward and ordered a quiet circle of Standing Battalion veterans around his commanding officers. The veterans responded immediately, averting their eyes politely, and formed a solid phalanx around the two kneeling figures.

Amaya and Gren stayed oblivious, eyes shut, arms wrapped tightly around each other.

But before the circle closed, hiding General and Commander from sight, two soldiers of the Standing Battalion – no longer simple recruits, not after this night – jerked to a halt, and stared.

"I was wrong," one said, running a hand through his blood-soaked hair. "I mean, I wasn't completely wrong, but I was wrong. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes," his compatriot said. The lower half of her braid had completely singed away. "I think we both were." She paused. "Not a word about this to anyone."

"Not a word," the other agreed.

At the centre of the circle, Gren breathed; breathed in Amaya's familiar smell of metal and wild heather, and felt each soft exhale in return against his shoulder.

They remained like that for a long while; until the sun rose properly into a new day, on the cusp of a new war.

Next Chapter: Gren pens a letter, and Amaya receives one from the king; one that will permanently change Katolis.