The mud of the Ashfen sucked at my boots as I dragged another wounded soldier toward the trench. Rain slashed sideways, turning the battlefield into a graveyard of sinking steel. I didn’t hear the arrow until it thudded into the tree beside my head.

"Stay down!" a voice barked. Strong hands pulled me into cover. Lucas. Of course it was him. His gray eyes scanned the ridge, his jaw tight with focus. He smelled like smoke and pine—the same scent that had comforted me during our late-night talks by the fire.

"You shouldn’t be here, Victoria," he said, voice low. "This isn’t your fight."

I yanked a dagger from a dead raider’s belt. "Isn’t it? My father sent me to die. You think I’d leave before proving him wrong?"

He hesitated, then pressed a healing salve into my palm. "For your arm."

I almost believed he cared—until I saw the locket around his neck snap open. Inside, a tiny portrait of Isabelle smiled back at me.

My chest cracked open, but I smiled anyway. "Thanks. I’ll return the favor—when you’re bleeding out in this hell."

Now, crouched in the storm, I faced a choice: trust the man who loved my sister, or become someone who needs no one.