Darkness thickened over the lands of Eschari. The war, like a hungry beast, spread along the borders of the kingdom, greedily devouring villages, lives, and destinies. The people waited for salvation—a miracle, or at least a glimmer of hope that could withstand the onslaught of steel and blood.

On the border, where the smoke of battle had no time to dissipate, stood the camp of the Eschari army, led by Duke Richard Berkeley—an unyielding warrior, born in armor and raised in the shadow of the sword. He knew no fear and sought no solace in the gods.

But this time, alongside the army, came the one they called the Saint—a messenger of the temple, blessed to heal wounds and strengthen hearts. Her presence was meant to be a sign from above, proof that even the heavens themselves were on Eschari’s side.

The general did not hide his doubts. What could a fragile girl, raised among prayers, do in the very heart of war? And yet, it was he—a man who did not believe in gods—who came to her tent one restless night. Not as a soldier, but as a man bearing the burden of responsibility for those who dared to stand beside him in hell.

The general’s tent was immersed in twilight. The flickering flames of candles cast trembling shadows on the walls, dancing over the crumpled front-line map and stacks of parchment. Richard Berkeley silently finished reading a letter marked with the imperial seal—dry, calculated lines from the capital: orders, requests, flattery, fear. Words from those who had never heard the crunch of breaking bones or smelled the stench of fresh blood soaking into wet earth.

He slowly set the letter aside and ran a hand over his face.

“The war will end if you hold the southern front,” he whispered, staring into the void. “Of course... except at what cost?”

He froze for a moment, then turned his gaze to the closed tent flap. The thought that had been lurking in the back of his mind resurfaced once more. The Saint.

She had been here for three days now. Humble, quiet, alien to this world. And every time her delicate hands touched the wounded, he felt a strange unease. Not because he doubted her powers—he had seen her work—but because she was too... alive. Too real for this rotting hell.

He stood up. Uncertainty—an uncommon guest in the Duke’s heart—flashed briefly in his chest.

“The night is calm... like the calm before the storm,” he muttered, throwing his cloak over his shoulders. “Better check.”

His heavy footsteps were muffled by the gravel of the camp paths. He walked quickly, but without confidence. Straight-backed, but with a weight pressing down on his chest. The guards near the Saint’s tent straightened at attention. One of them began to speak, but Richard cut him off with a brief wave of his hand.

— “Good night, Saint. May I come in?”

The fabric parted, and the only sound was the crunch of boots on the wooden floor. The tent was filled with the scent of herbs and wax. She was sitting near the source of light—beside a small altar, her face half-covered by a hood.

He stopped without crossing the invisible line between them.

— “I didn’t mean to disturb...” he said after a short pause. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

She said nothing, only looked up at him. Calm. Without fear, without reproach.

— “The camp is rotting from the inside. The soldiers are holding on, but each of them looks at you as if you're the last thing keeping them from falling into the abyss. I... don’t know how fair that is.”

He narrowed his eyes, a shadow of bitterness creeping into his voice.

— “They believe that if you’re here, God is with us. And when I look at you, I don’t see a miracle—I see a living being who should never have been brought here.”

Richard stepped a little closer but didn’t dare to sit.

— “But since you’re here... I’ll stand between you and everything that might hurt you. As long as I stand, no one will touch you.”

He nodded slowly, as though sealing a vow with his own words, and turned toward the exit.

— “If you need anything... command it. I’m nearby. Always.”