The barracks below were hushed, save for the soft groan of wood and the fading buzz of lanternflies drifting near the tree line. The night air was crisp, wrapping the base in a stillness that only came after hard decisions and quiet victories. Beatrice sat on the rooftop ledge, legs folded beneath her, a warm mug of tea cupped between her hands. Her goggles were gone. Her white hair shimmered like starlight in the moon's glow.
Beside her, Levi settled with his usual minimal effort—cravat still on, sleeves rolled to the forearms, second mug in hand.
They didn't speak for a while. Didn't need to. He'd made the tea.
She'd brought the stars and berries. That was enough.
"You don't think it's too much?" she finally asked, voice soft, like the question might flutter away if it were too loud.
"What?"
"This squad. Just… us."
He sipped his tea, gaze forward. "No."
Beatrice glanced sideways. "You were always meant to lead a squad."
"I'm already leading it."
She laughed under her breath. "That's not what I meant."
He looked at her now. Eyes steady. "You think you don't count?"
"I think I'm… still learning."
"You learn fast."
Beatrice took a long breath, the warmth from the mug grounding her. "I just don't want to slow you down."
"You never have."
The silence afterwards wasn't heavy. It was full. Like they were standing on the edge of something—not quite ready to leap, but no longer pretending the drop didn't exist.
Levi reached into his jacket and pulled something small from his inside pocket.
"Here."
She blinked. "What is—"
He placed it in her hand.
A patch. Their patch. A minimalist emblem stitched onto dark fabric—their unit's symbol. Just the two of them. Subtle. Sharp. Unmistakable.
"For your uniform," he said. "They'll give you another one, but… this one's mine. Had it made."
Her breath caught. She held it like it was glass.
"…Levi."
"It's not a big deal."
"It is to me."
He didn't reply.
But she didn't give the patch back.
And he didn't ask for it.
The Two-Man Unit in Action
Three days later, their first deployment as their own squad was underway. No support unit. No other flanks.
Just them.
The mission was simple—on paper. Clear a corridor through a fog-heavy northern region that had seen consistent titan activity. Fast travel. Close-range engagement. Extreme visibility risk. For anyone else, it would have been suicide.
But not them.
They launched together—synchronised, not side-by-side, but threaded. Her goggles dimmed the mist, outlining shadows in motion. Levi was a breath ahead, clearing branches and cutting angles like he'd mapped the whole field days ago. Their formation moved like blood through a vein.
A titan to the east. Levi gave no verbal command. Beatrice had already shifted altitude, blade flashing. She hit the tendon—he landed the nape. Steam rose. They didn't pause. Two more, larger, ahead.
"Veering right," Levi said.
"Looping back after the second strike," she replied.
The fact that they spoke at all was rare. Usually, they didn't need to. But now, their voices were tools—efficient, clean, perfectly timed. A long-limbed titan tried to cut her off midair.
She didn't flinch.
"Low pivot," Levi called.
She dropped.
And he obliterated the nape before the titan even registered her absence.
"Left flank," she said next. "Wind's catching my line."
"Switch cross angle."
Done. The two titans fell within seconds of each other. The forest was silent. And then the watch squad—Erwin's chosen observers—emerged from the ridge above, still blinking in stunned silence.
"That's them?" one asked.
"Just them?" another whispered.
Erwin, watching with a faint smirk, simply nodded.
"They don't need anyone else."