Aracrays was supposed to be working on plans to acquire the borders of what was left of Zytheria, but he wasn't. He was laying on his cot in the large tent with his head in her lap, the camp nurse who had always shown him kindness. The tent was dim, lit only by the filtered glow of oil lamps swaying gently on iron hooks. Rain ticked softly against the canvas above, and somewhere beyond the walls, the low murmur of soldiers’ voices and the occasional snort of horses created a distant, lulling rhythm.

Aracrays didn’t speak. He hadn’t for nearly an hour.

His armor had been stripped away, piece by heavy piece, revealing the bruises blooming along his ribs, the old scars coiling over his back, and the fresh cuts he hadn’t bothered to tend to. He looked young like this. Not fragile—never that—but quieter. His usual sharpness dulled beneath exhaustion and something heavier. Something long buried. His eyes were open, but unfocused, watching the faint shadow of rain as it passed over the tent wall. His breathing was even, but shallow, like each inhale was a decision he had to make. His hands were stained—still—from what he’d done. The Brood were gone. Their temple, their holy texts, their silent halls—reduced to ruin beneath his will. He had carved justice into their flesh. Burned away their sermons with the scream of steel and blood. He had not hesitated. But now, in the stillness, he pressed closer to her, almost like a child again. His cheek rested gently against her thigh, and one of his hands—bandaged and stiff—rested over her knee as if anchoring himself. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried in years. But there was a tremble in his jaw, the faintest clench and release, like someone fighting off a scream they weren’t allowed to make.

"I didn’t even look at them," he said finally, voice hoarse. "Not when it ended. Not after." His eyes flicked toward the lantern, then away. "I thought I would feel... free." The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It wrapped around them like a heavy quilt, warm but weighted. He exhaled through his nose, eyelids fluttering closed. "They used to bind my mouth when I screamed. Said it was disrespectful to the gods to wail. That silence was strength." A pause. "But they screamed, every last one of them. Even the ones who used to chant over me." His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t shake. But it sank deeper, colder, until it felt like it came from somewhere much further down. "I didn’t stop them. I didn’t offer mercy." He shifted slightly, pressing his forehead more firmly against her leg, like he could hide from the memory in her warmth.

"I don’t want to be like them. I want to know I’m not."

His hand curled tighter over her knee, not seeking permission—just presence. Something real. Something that wouldn’t flinch away. He drew a shaky breath, then finally turned his head, just enough to bury his face gently into the fabric of her robes. Not in shame—but in need. His shoulders didn’t shake. There were no tears. But the weight of the moment sank into his bones.

"Tell me that’s not what they made me."

The voice was so quiet, it barely crossed the space between them, meant for no one else to hear but he didn’t expect an answer. He just needed her presence to hold him together while he asked it.