There's something wrong with me.

I didn't know what exactly it was, or why it even existed. But it was only then, lying awake in the dim morning light, that I realized somewhere, deep down, there was something off, something rotten. A flaw in the foundation of who I was.

That was the only explanation I could find. The only one that made sense. The only one I could bear to think about. I was broken. I was wrong.

Last night, I'd laid myself bare to it. Let it consume me.

I stared up at the ceiling, barely blinking, every breath I took felt like borrowed time, every second stretching out as my mind replayed the night before. The warmth of her skin. The weight of her body pressed against mine. The way she had looked at me in the dark, unguarded and vulnerable in a way I had never seen before.

The way I had wanted her.

I had thought I would feel repulsed by the memory, that I would want to tear it from my mind, to replace it with anything else. But I'd relished all of it. I should have woken up feeling sick, suffocating under some incredible weight, wracked with my own guilt so badly I could barely function. I should have felt like I was the scum of the earth. I should have felt like a traitor, like an adulterer, like a selfish, wretched, horrible piece of shit.

And I did. I really did. But that wasn't all. There was something else. Something I didn't want to name or even think about.

A sharp knock at my door made me jolt upright, as if I'd been caught in the act of some terrible crime. My body moved before my mind caught on, driven by instinct some dumb instinct to get moving, get up, pretend that everything was fine. For a second, I almost managed to convince myself that it was someone else. That somehow, impossibly, the world had righted itself in the dead of night, discovered our sin, and come to judge me for it.

It wasn't.

Claudia stood on the other side of my door.

She was in uniform, her posture as straight and composed as ever, but there was something different. Something I would have missed, had I not day in and day out watching her every movement, learning the way she carried herself, the way she held her shoulders, the subtle shifts in her expression when she thought no one was looking. There was hesitation there. A fleeting moment of it, gone so quickly it could have been imagined.

Her lips parted slightly, as if she meant to say something, but the words did not come. It took me a second longer than it should have to realize she was expecting me to speak.

"I—" My throat felt dry, my voice rough. I swallowed. "What?"

She frowned slightly, studying my face. "Are you well, Ansel? I was expecting you in my study half an hour ago."

I stared at her, momentarily thrown. I had expected—what? For her to pretend it had never happened? For her to acknowledge it? For her to be angry?

I didn't know.

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Then, slowly, I managed, "I—what? But… I, uh… After last night, I…" I couldn't bring myself to finish. I could still see it, the memory of her face, her voice, her touch, as she'd given in.

She averted her gaze, her fingers twitching at her side, as though she had almost reached up to touch her neck, where the evidence might still linger. But then she steadied, her expression hardening into something more measured. "...We have work to do. We can't afford to waste time being… distant."

Distant.

That was the word she had chosen. Not reckless. Not foolish. Not wrong.

Just distant.

I felt like laughing. Or maybe screaming. I honestly couldn't tell which. Instead, I nodded, trying not to let the absurdity of it show on my face. "...Right. Of course." The words sounded hollow even to my own ears. "I'll just be a minute. I need to change."

She gave another short nod, like she was satisfied with that answer. But she didn't move. For a moment, neither of us did. We stood there, looking at each other, neither knowing what to do, neither knowing what to say. It was long enough that I caught the faintest flush of color on her face, the tiniest flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. They were both so brief that if I'd blinked, I might have missed them.

But I hadn't. And I didn't. I waited, my heart pounding in my chest, for her to speak. To say something that would make this make sense.

She didn't.

Finally, when the silence had stretched out too long, too thin, she turned away, her posture stiff and rigid. Controlled. I shut the door, pressing my back against it, staring blankly at the wooden beams of my ceiling.

My heart was still hammering in my chest. I told myself it was... Fear. Or anger. Or something appropriate, something righteous. But I didn't feel afraid. Or angry.

I turned to the washbasin in the corner of my room and splashed cold water onto my face, bracing my hands against the wood, forcing myself to breathe evenly. Then I lifted my head and met my own reflection in the small, fogged mirror.

I hoped to see disgust there, some measure of regret.

But the son of a bitch staring back at me didn't look like he felt either of those things.

He didn't look haunted or ashamed. He didn't look like a man who had done anything wrong. If anything, he looked... alive. Vibrant, with a spark in his eye, a hint of color in his cheeks, and a faint, almost-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I wanted to punch him in the face. I wanted to scream at him, demand to know how the fuck he was okay with this.

But I didn't. Instead, I turned away and started to get put on my uniform, like it was any other day.

"...There's something wrong with me," I said to no one.

The space between us was suffocating.

It was there and not there all at once.

Claudia and I did not avoid each other the way we had before—not outright, at least. I still reported to her every morning. We still exchanged words. Orders. Reports. The rhythms of duty still bound us together.

But the space between us had changed. We never let ourselves be alone in a room together anymore.

It wasn't something we had spoken about—there had been no discussion, no agreement, no acknowledgment. But it had become an unspoken rule, something we both obeyed without needing to put words to it.

And yet, despite all of it, I could still feel her.

When I entered a room, I was aware of her before I even saw her. I could sense the way she moved, the way she carried herself, the way the air shifted when she was near.

We had crossed the line. We had crossed it, and now we were adrift.

The afternoon spars, once a fixture of my training, became less and less frequent. At first, I convinced myself it was because of the workload. There were reports to be written, patrols to be scheduled, preparations to be made. But no.

She was avoiding them. Avoiding me. Or maybe avoiding what happened when we fought—when the world narrowed down to just the two of us, to the clash of steel, to the way our bodies moved in tandem, matching rhythm and pace, each forcing the other to react. Eventually, they became rare occurrences, the once-familiar routine fading into a memory.

I told myself it was fine. That I was improving well enough that I didn't need constant practice. That I was learning everything I needed to know. That I was doing well. That was the excuse I clung to, the one I kept repeating in my mind. I almost believed it. But I knew better.

The distance was her way of controlling herself. And I let her.

I didn't bring her meals to her rooms anymore. I let the armsmen or attendants handle that. It was a small thing, a minor duty, something I never would have given a second thought before. But it mattered now. Because it was one more line we could draw between us.

And yet… despite all of it, we still looked.

I noticed it. How she lingered for just a fraction of a second longer when she walked past me. How her gaze flickered toward me from across the courtyard when she thought I wasn't paying attention. How sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, her eyes would dart to my mouth—so quickly I might have imagined it—before snapping away like she'd been burned.

I caught myself doing the same. Stealing glances. Wondering if she'd acknowledge them. If she'd say anything. If I would.

I never did.

Neither did she.

But the glances piled up. Became heavier. Became something neither of us could ignore. I wasn't sure what was worse—the fact that it was happening at all, or the fact that a part of me wanted her to look at me.

There's something wrong with me.

The air in the alehouse was thick with the scent of roasted meat, hearth smoke, and the rich tang of whatever spices Gilmen had dumped into the stew. The man had sworn up and down that it was an old Dwarven recipe, but I had my doubts. It smelled... strong. Strong enough that I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted to eat it, or use it to strip rust from old nails and horseshoes.

Not that it stopped Vera.

"Ooh! Annie, you have to try this," she declared, slapping a spoonful of the... stuff onto my plate before I could even think to protest. "Authentic mountain stew! Passed down from old Dwarven grannies, or some such."

"Yeah?" I eyed the brownish-gray mass like it was about to leap off the plate and start crawling around the table. I poked at it with a spoon, watching it jiggle. "And how does Gilmen know how to make that?"

Vera shrugged. "He said he used to live in Rad since he was a kid, and even trained under a famous chef there!"

Biggs, sitting across from me, snorted. "More like he worked for a Dwarf cook for years. As a dish boy. And then got kicked out for filching ale from the cellar."

Vera gasped in exaggerated outrage. "Biggs! You mean to tell me that Gilmen lied to me?! That he would exaggerate the truth for the sake of sales?" She pressed a hand to her chest, feigning shock. "How dare he! I'm going to give him a piece of my mind!"

"You do that," Biggs chuckled, waving a hand as he leaned back in his chair. "I'll be here, enjoying the fruits of his deception."

The squad erupted into laughter, and I found myself chuckling along with them.

It was good to be here. To just sit and let myself be surrounded by the easy camaraderie, the warmth of the ale, and the laughter that echoed through the alehouse. Lately, I'd been making a point of spending more time with the squad. I wasn't in the army anymore, not technically, and there was no telling how long we'd still be in the same place. When this deployment was over, we'd scatter—Vera and the squad would go back to Ken, others to whatever garrison or duty awaited them next.

And I... I didn't know where I would be.

But for now, I was here. And that was enough.

I glanced at Colette as she laughed at some dumb joke Kirk was making, the sound bright and infectious, filling the room like sunshine. She looked at ease, her eyes crinkled at the corners, her short silvery hair falling in loose strands across her forehead. I watched as she reached up to tuck a lock behind her ear, a gesture I'd probably seen her make a thousand times before but never really paid attention to. I wondered if that was the first time I'd noticed the delicacy of her fingers, the way the light played off her skin.

She caught me looking, just for a moment, and her smile softened, turning into something quieter, more personal, just for me.

There was a sudden pressure in my chest, just from out of nowhere. I looked back down at my plate, and forced down a bite of the mystery stew.

It was terrible, just as I'd expected.

Later, as we parted ways for the evening, Vera caught up to me.

"I've actually gotta talk to Captain Kessler about something, so might as well walk back with ya," she'd explained, and I'd nodded along.

The night air was crisp, carrying the lingering scent of rain from earlier in the day. The streets of Wallesdorf were quieter now, save for the occasional murmur of voices spilling from taverns and alehouses, or the distant clatter of hooves against stone as a patrol rode past. The two of us walked at an easy pace, Vera's hands tucked into the folds of her greatcoat. I still didn't quite understand how she could stand to wear the thing this far into the summer.

We made idle conversation at first—nothing serious, nothing weighty. Vera let it slip that she might be up for a promotion soon, and I congratulated her. It almost surprised me just how pleased I was to hear it.

"Congratulations," I told her. "You deserve it."

Then, after a lull, she kicked at a loose cobblestone and began with a light tone: "So. You seem to be getting along well with the rest of the crew."

I glanced at her. "Yeah. It's been good seeing everyone again. I know I'm not a part of the squad anymore, but you all have been good company."

Vera smiled, nudging my shoulder with hers. "Well, you know what they say; Once a soldier, always a soldier. Still, you oughta come around more often. It's not quite the same without you."

"What, Hans isn't living up to being my replacement?" I said, half-joking.

"Nah," Vera said. "He's a good enough kid, but he's still just that—a kid. He's got a ways to go before I can see him being a proper soldier. He's got this annoying habit of asking me a million questions whenever I'm trying to take a nap." She sighed and shook her head in mock exasperation. "But I guess he means well."

There was a brief pause. A comfortable one.

Then, with a deliberate sort of nonchalance, Vera added, "Some of us have been missing you a bit more than others, you know."

I slowed slightly, the meaning behind her words dawning on me just a second too late.

"Oh," I said, stopping in my tracks. "You mean Colette?"

Vera nodded. "Yeah. I swear, at this point she should just come straight out and... tell you... Wait, wait, what? Huh?" She stopped suddenly, blinking at me as though I'd just sprouted a pair of antlers, voice pitching up in disbelief. "HUH?! You knew?!"

"...Yeah?" I stared at her, giving a half shrug. "Should I not?"

"No! I- I mean, yes, obviously, but—" Vera flailed a hand at me. "How?"

I raised an eyebrow at her, unsure if she was being serious or not. "I don't know, I just... Noticed. It's not like she's been subtle about it."

"You noticed."

"Yeah."

"You. Noticed." Vera enunciated each word as if speaking to a child, her eyebrows climbing higher and higher with each syllable.

"Again—Yes."

Vera stared at me, making a vaguely indignant sound in the back of her throat. "Ansel," she said, "I mean this with all the love and respect in the world, but you are denser than a damn rock when it comes to this shit. You're the kind of man who wouldn't pick up on a pretty girl's affections if she walked up to you stark naked, grabbed you by the shoulders, and screamed 'I LIKE YOU!' into your face."

I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Yeah... Yeah. You're not even wrong, though. I actually am that type of guy. I just got the stupid knocked out of me the hard way a long time ago." It was oddly nostalgic, in a way. I thought back to Adela, and how she actually did have to corner me and practically spell out when we were kids.

Vera sighed, shaking her head in disbelief. "Ures' balls... I was so sure I'd have to explain it all out to you. I thought I'd have to sit you down, give you one of those slow, condescending speeches, you know? Like how I'd explain to my little cousins that no, the pretty fairy lady in the red dress is not a fairy, and no, she will not grant any wishes, and yes, that is actually just the village drunkard with a nasty hangover."

"Wow, okay," I said, still laughing. "Appreciate the vote of confidence, Vera!"

Vera laughed along with me. "Sure, anytime."

There was a pause then, before a slow smile crept across her face. Soon, it broke out into a full grin. Vera giggled, her eyes practically shining as she leaned closer, bouncing on her heels in a girlish way that was so entirely at odds with her usual attitude. "So? So? So? She's cute, right? Whatcha gonna say to her, Annie?"

That wiped the smirk from my face.

What was I going to do about it?

Colette... She was a good person. More than that, she was warm. Strong, confident. She laughed easily, and she was witty, and she had a stubborn streak a mile wide. And she liked me.

But as I thought about it, as I turned the idea over in my head, I felt something I hadn't expected.

Nothing.

Or, rather—no rush of excitement, no nervous anticipation, no ache of want. Just a slow, quiet realization that whatever I should have felt for her simply wasn't there.

I thought of Adela. I thought of Diana Stockhausen from Halem. And my stomach fell as I realized that I didn't feel anything for any of them—not like I'd felt before. Not like I'd wanted to.

I looked away from Vera, forcing myself to swallow down the weight in my throat. "I don't know. I just... I don't think I can be the kind of person she needs." Someone better. Someone who could make her happy. Someone who cared.

"Oh." Vera's smile dimmed, her giddy excitement fading. She was quiet for a long moment, studying me carefully. Then she nodded, her expression gentler than before. "Mind if I ask why? You got someone waiting on you back in Geofu?"

I stiffened slightly at the question. "No," I answered quickly. Too quickly. I took another step before realizing she wasn't beside me anymore.

I turned back, finding her staring, arms crossed, a frown tugging at her lips. Vera gave me a long, measuring look, like she was trying to piece together something that wasn't quite making sense to her.

I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, she just shook her head. "Whatever. If you're gonna be all broody and self-loathing about this, that's your call. But don't..." Her voice softened slightly. "Don't do that thing where you push people away because you think you should."

I looked down.

Vera exhaled through her nose. "Look, I get it. You're a complicated man with complicated feelings. But Colette's a good gal. She deserves honesty. So... At least tell her you don't feel that way. Don't leave her hanging, alright?"

I nodded, still not quite able to meet her eyes. "Yeah."

She studied me for a moment longer, then let out a dramatic sigh. "Gods, Annie. You're exhausting."

That got a small smile out of me. "Tell me something I don't know."

She smirked, then started walking again. I fell into step beside her, the silence between us less comfortable this time. We reached the manse gates soon after. Vera gave me a two-fingered salute, then headed off in the direction of the barracks.

I stood there for a long moment, staring up at the night sky.

And I thought of Claudia.

There's something seriously wrong with me.

I'd tried to sleep. I'd tried for hours, laying in bed, eyes closed, mind racing, my body aching with a restlessness that wouldn't quit. I thought about her. The heat of her skin beneath my fingers. The way her nails had pressed into my back. The quiet, shuddering breaths against my neck. Every stolen moment that had led to that point, and every single one that had come after.

I turned onto my side, then onto my back again, staring at the ceiling in the dim glow of the dying hearth. My jaw hurt from how hard I'd been clenching it.

She is my master. She is married. She is—

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing sleep to come. Willing myself to forget. But all I could see was her. Her face in the candlelight, the way her breath had hitched when I touched her—

"Stop it, godsdamn you," I hissed at myself. "Just... stop."

Somehow, I knew she wasn't sleeping either.

There was a pull. I fought it for as long as I could. Then, without quite realizing what I was doing, I was already moving. Some old shirt was pulled over my head. The door was unlocked. I was outside. Walking, not running. Not hurrying.

The corridors were dim, illuminated only by the sparse sconces still burning from the evening. The silence made every footstep feel too loud, too sharp against the stone. I didn't think. I didn't let myself.

I climbed the stairs. I rounded the corner. No one else was here. The manse was asleep. Except for me. And her. I stopped in front of her door. My pulse pounded in my ears. A steady drumbeat, hammering, hammering, hammering away.

I lifted a hand to knock.

And hesitated. I could turn around. I could leave, go back to my room, and forget this ever happened.

I knocked before I could talk myself out of it. A long pause. A silence that stretched on. Then—I heard it. A shift of movement. A faint shuffle of feet. The door cracked open.

I saw her eyes first.

Wide. Startled. Blue as ever, framed by strands of brown hair, which fell freely down her shoulders, all the way down to the small of her back. Her nightgown hung loosely on her, one hand clutching at the fabric just below her throat.

Of course she had been awake. Her face was pale in the moonlight, her expression unreadable. The sight of her—just her, the way she looked, standing there, with that slight flush on her cheeks—made my heart skip a beat.

"Ansel?" Her voice was quiet. Hesitant. "Why are you here?"

I wished I had an answer. A real one. Something better than the truth.

But I could only shake my head. "I don't know," I admitted. "I just… I wanted to be here."

Claudia blinked once, shaking her head slightly. Then, as if coming back to herself, she squared her shoulders, her grip tightening slightly at her robe. She looked at me—really looked at me—for a moment that stretched out for too long.

She should have slammed the door. She should have pushed me away, told me to leave and never come back. That would have been the right thing.

Stop me. Shout at me. Tell me to go away. Please.

Please.

But she didn't.

Her teeth grazed her lip, a small, nervous motion. Her fingers lifted unconsciously to toy with a loose strand of her hair, curling it around a fingertip, winding and unwinding. Her gaze flicked away from me, then back to my face, searching.

I watched her throat bob as she swallowed. "You… You shouldn't be here, Ansel," she said at last, her voice little more than a whisper. "This isn't right."

It wasn't a command; It was a fact. And yet, she hadn't closed the door.

I let out a slow breath, pressing my palm lightly against the wood. Not forcing it open—just keeping it from shutting.

Claudia's breath hitched. She saw what I was doing. And she saw what I wasn't doing. And then, almost imperceptibly, she took a step back. The door opened a fraction wider.

Something twisted in my chest, something raw.

This was it. She was giving me a choice. I could still leave. I could still turn around.

I could still...

I stepped inside. The door shut behind me.