Silence fell over the king’s war camp as her helmet was torn off.

Anders had imagined this day for eight long years. He had envisioned countless ways to break General Kael, the ruthless commander who had outmaneuvered him at every turn. A ghost on the battlefield, impossible to pin down—until now. The metallic scent of blood and sweat hung heavy in the air, mixed with the earthy aroma of trampled grass.

But as he stared at the face beneath the helmet, his breath caught sharply in his throat. The afternoon sun glinted off a jagged gash above her eyebrow, fresh blood still oozing slowly down her pale cheek.

Kael was a woman.

She was filthy, her dark unbound hair tangled and matted from battle, but there was no mistaking it. The one who had tormented him for nearly a decade was her—a woman with surprisingly delicate features despite the warrior's frame. The soldiers around them shifted uncomfortably, the clink of armor and weapons the only sound in the sudden stillness.

A murmur rippled through his men—disbelief, curses, whispered speculation—but Anders barely heard them. He could only stare at her slackened features, at the vulnerability in her unconscious form that seemed impossible to reconcile with the legendary warrior she was reputed to be.

"She’s unconscious," one of his officers said, breaking the spell. "Struck her head against a rock when her horse went down before we captured her."

Anders crouched beside her, his leather gloves creaking as he reached out to grip her chin, tilting her face toward the light. The sun warmed his back as he studied her features, noting the faint scar at the corner of her mouth and the determined set of her jaw even in unconsciousness.

When her lashes finally fluttered open and she groaned softly, he spoke, his voice colder than he intended.

"Kael."

Her eyes opened slowly—hazel eyes that seemed to shift between green and brown—unfocused and clouded with confusion as they struggled to focus on his face. She blinked several times, as if trying to clear a fog from her vision.

"...Who?" Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, raw from what must have been hours of shouting orders on the battlefield.

His frown deepened, fingers tightening slightly on her chin. "Don’t play games with me. You know exactly who you are."

Her brow furrowed slightly as she took in the circle of hostile faces surrounding her, the royal banners emblazoned with his family crest flapping in the wind behind them. A look of genuine bewilderment crossed her features, followed by a flash of fear as comprehension began to dawn that she was a prisoner.

Anders stilled, a chill running through him despite the afternoon warmth. This wasn’t an act. Her confusion was too real, too raw around the edges. The way she flinched slightly at the sight of his soldiers' drawn weapons, the way her eyes darted around as if searching for something familiar—none of it seemed feigned.