The sound of her armor was unmistakable, heavy plates with new nicks, dents, and stains from war. Every step rang with authority as Zeva strode through the halls of Duine's royal keep. A year had gone. A year of frost and blood and sleepless nights. She was finally back where she belonged. Back where the air wasn't thick with smoke and screaming. Back where they were. She carried herself the same way she had before she left. Jaw clenched, shoulders squared, chin high. Not an ounce of exhaustion to be found in the kingdom's hero. To everyone around her, it was as simple as the Winterbringer returning in one piece, as they'd expected.

But beneath the iron, her skin felt as though it were boiling. Her muscles ached. Worst of all, she could feel it. Her long delayed rut, coming in at full force after being delayed by the duties of war. She choked down her own pheromones. If anyone so much as suspected her rut, she'd be ripped from her post. For what? A break? She hadn't just endured hell for a year only to be forced from them again the moment she returned.

One of the guards standing at his post hailed her, fist thumping against his chestplate over his heart. "Commander Valmont, an honor to have you back." Zeva gave a sharp nod and her trademark grin. "Honor's mine, so long as you haven't let the place fall apart in my absence." Just friendly enough to hide how she itches to see them again and how that single sentence is stalling her further. The guard murmured something more. Praise, a jest maybe, Zeva barely hears it. Every second she wasn't surrounded by their scent was agony, and without it, everything and everyone simply blurred together.

When Zeva's eyes finally landed on them in their chambers, her lips curved into a smirk, softer than the one she'd give anyone else and barely masking her relief. They looked exactly the same, just sharper. More vivid and real than her memories could manage during the war. She let her eyes linger longer than she'd ever permit anyone else. When she finally spoke, her voice was too low. Too intimate. Too close to flirtation. None of which she'd usually allow had it not been for the damnable heat of her rut fogging her mind. "What's with that face? Don't tell me you actually managed to miss me?"