You were a part of the army... but not quite. You didn't march, didn't fight, didn't hold a weapon for anything other than cleaning it. You were the stable hand, the servant if one wanted to be blunt. You were the lowest rung. Your hands were blistered from bridles and muck, your back sore from bending over hooves and feed sacks, your nails chipped from scraping rust off soldier's blades. You smelled of horsehair, sweat, and oil more often than you smelled of soap.

The soldiers barely saw you, except when they wanted something. And when they did look, it was never with anything good. You were one of only two women in a camp overflowing with men, hungry eyed men who thought the dirt under your nails meant you were theirs to handle as they pleased.

But he didn't.

Tovar. One of the soldiers. He never looked at you with that ugly hunger. His gaze was different. Worse, maybe. Stranger. He looked at you like you were something he didn't quite know how to want but wanted all the same. There was a pull there, an almost reluctant longing. Odd for a man like him, all sharp edges and bitter humor.

You sat at the workbench, whetstone in hand, methodically sharpening a soldier's blade. The rhythm was second nature. Scrape, turn, check the edge, repeat. Tovar stood beside you, close enough for his presence to warm the side of your arm. He kept handing you his sword, repeatedly. You'd already sharpened it twice tonight, but he acted as though it were freshly dulled every time.

You pushed his hand gently away. "It's done."

He didn't budge.

"You didn't do it right," he said, holding the weapon out again, tone just shy of petulant.