The morning was quiet, cool with dew clinging to the wildflowers lining the main path of the Order's base. A line of knights, squires, and newly arrived craftsmen stood at attention, offering their farewells to Lady Valmira, the storm of the capital and the benevolent hurricane of Arasha's life.
Arasha stood at the forefront, her posture as straight and respectful as ever, yet her amber eyes shimmered with gratitude.
"I will come to you when you need me. No matter what," Arasha vowed earnestly.
Valmira, already mounting her elegantly adorned horse, gave her grand-niece a sly smile beneath her hood.
"Don't make promises you can't keep, child. Instead, promise me this: take care of yourself. That's payment enough."
Her tone was light, but her gaze lingered on Arasha for just a breath longer — as if memorizing her.
Beside Arasha, Leta let out a soft scoff, arms crossed.
"She's right. That would be the hardest promise for you to keep, Commander."
Sir Garran grunted in agreement, arms behind his back as always.
"Reckless dedication is still reckless, even if it's admirable."
Arasha smiled — one of those rare, warm smiles that softened the strict lines she always wore.
"I'll do my best. But I won't lie — I'll probably still worry too much."
Valmira simply laughed and rode off with her guards, her long cloak fluttering like a banner in the wind. The Order watched her go in respectful silence.
****
Over the next weeks, the base transformed.
Workshops rang with the sound of skilled hammers, new barracks were built, training dummies replaced, and sparring grounds finally received proper terrain leveling. The medical wing gleamed under morning light — no longer merely functional but prepared, worthy of the elite force Arasha led.
And not only infrastructure changed.
Senior squires, once hesitant and rough, now trained under Valmira's personally designed regimen — polished, fierce, ready.
Their trials for knighthood drew closer, and pride swelled in the Order like spring tide.
Arasha kept a quiet eye on them. She didn't speak often, but her slight nods of approval were as coveted as medals.
One clear night, after confirming Valmira had arrived back at her eastern estate safely, Arasha penned a letter.
To Great Aunt Valmira,
I trust the journey back was gentle. The base is blooming thanks to your unrelenting support. The eastern smiths have already improved our weapons and armor distribution by 40%, and the young medics you sent have revolutionized our treatment protocol. I have enclosed a report on their progress.
More importantly, I want to thank you once again. You've given us not only tools, but confidence. You've strengthened the spine of our Order, and for that — I remain in your debt.
P.S. I do promise to rest when I can. (I can already hear Leta calling me a liar. But I'm resting on my own way.)
With gratitude,
Arasha
****
Far away, in a luxurious estate nestled between mineral-rich cliffs and flowering gardens, Valmira read the letter under the golden light of her reading room.
She didn't sigh — not quite. But her eyes warmed, and her lips curled wryly.
"Still sending field reports in thank-you letters. Gods help the poor fool who tries to woo her with poetry," she muttered.
She placed the letter among the others Arasha had sent since childhood — all neatly bundled and tied in soft silk.
"But she's growing. Good."
And outside her windows, her stewards were already preparing her next shipment of aid to the Order — quietly, efficiently, just as she'd promised.
****
The sky over the Holy City shimmered gold with divine wards, yet beneath it, the borderlands were in chaos.
A hurried message bearing the seal of the Holy Order had reached Arasha only days prior. Monsters had begun surging across the borders, attacking pilgrim roads and sacred groves.
Without hesitation, Arasha gathered a dozen of her top knights—the elite, the best, and most trusted—leaving the base in Sir Garran's capable hands.
He saw her off with a short nod and a subtle warning in his eyes: "Don't let them slow you down."
He meant the nobles. The troublesome nobles.
But of course, they did.
The journey to the Holy City, already long, was made worse by meddlesome nobles. Some refused to honor their own gate passes, others held up her group with frivolous inspections, attempting to delay her under the pretense of protocol.
Arasha weathered it all with her usual steely patience, never raising her voice but leaving behind shattered pride and trembling subordinates with each wordless glare.
By the time she and her knights arrived, the outer sanctums of the Holy City were under siege. Without rest, she led a swift and decisive counterattack, carving through the beast hordes with lethal precision and minimal civilian damage. Her coordination was impeccable: evacuation routes established within minutes, injured civilians protected by knight shields, sacred wards reinforced by her temporary command.
For three days, they fought. By the fourth, the last monster fell to the sanctified blade of one of her knights.
The Holy Order expressed its deepest gratitude. The priests bowed low, and the High Canon himself offered Arasha a blessing—one she respectfully accepted.
Supplies were restocked, and repairs on the outer walls began immediately. Yet it became clear to Arasha that the city's people were fragile, worn thin by constant fear.
She stayed.
While the city healed, Arasha coordinated with local officials to streamline rebuilding efforts. She personally inspected the refugee zones, had her knights train with the local guards, and ensured the healing halls received proper aid.
During this, the Paladin Commander—a tall, charismatic man with warm blue eyes and a composed air—saw his chance. No longer restrained by urgent battle, he made his presence known, appearing at Arasha's side more often. Offering assistance, walking with her during inspections, and even sharing guarded but respectful conversations about duty, faith, and burden.
Unlike others, he didn't flatter her. He challenged her thoughts with humility and experience. And though Arasha remained professional, something in her expression softened—a flicker of appreciation, perhaps.
Still, when Leta sent word through a knight relay asking how long she'd remain in the Holy City, the answer Arasha returned was simple:
"Until they no longer tremble in their homes."
And for now, the Paladin Commander remained content to walk by her side—a silent competitor in the quiet war of hearts.
Back at the Order's base, Garran simply sighed as he read the report.
"Another fool drawn to our Commander," he muttered. "Kane better hurry up."
As the repairs in the Holy City neared completion and the monster threat at the borders had finally abated, Arasha allowed herself a rare moment of respite.
It was then that she received an unexpected invitation from Sir Alvin, the commander of the Holy Order's paladins. With a courteous bow and a voice practiced in formality, he asked her to join him for the upcoming Festival of Moonlight—a revered celebration in the Holy City that commemorated divine guidance and protection.
Arasha, unassuming and gracious, accepted without suspicion. She reasoned that after the hardship the city had endured, showing face and solidarity during a communal celebration was only right. The high priests themselves had offered her and her knights several crates of rare, high-grade potions as a token of gratitude.
Encouraged by the priests, especially the high priest who treated Alvin like a son, Arasha had no reason to see the invitation as anything more than a gesture of camaraderie.
What she did not know was that Sir Alvin had a different intention. Hidden inside a small, elegantly carved wooden box he planned to give her that evening was a delicate hairclip fashioned in silver and shaped like an iris—a flower symbolizing "I will think of you always" in the old tongue of the Holy Land.
Alvin, ever composed in battle and counsel, found his calm shaken by Arasha's unwavering strength and subtle kindness.
Arasha, for her part, simply enjoyed the Moonlight Festival's ambiance.
Lanterns floated across the river that divided the Holy City, casting golden reflections on the water's surface.
Choral hymns resonated from every corner, and children ran in the streets wearing silver and white garlands.
Dressed in a modest but clean ceremonial uniform, Arasha mingled with the people, received their gratitude, and even bought a small honey cake from a child vendor.
Meanwhile, the knights who accompanied her kept a close watch on Sir Alvin. Although his sincerity seemed genuine, they remembered Sir Garran's specific instruction: observe, report, and ensure their Commander remained safe and untroubled.
Some of them even made quiet inquiries, their protective instincts sharpened by loyalty and the growing rumor that many suitors were aiming for their Commander's hand.
That evening, as the festival reached its height, Sir Alvin finally approached Arasha with the gift in hand, masked as a simple memento.
She accepted it graciously, smiling warmly without reading into its deeper meaning. Her focus remained on her duty, unaware of the quiet storm of affections and alliances forming around her.
Far away, back at the Order's base, Sir Garran received the detailed observations from the knights stationed with Arasha.
He read them in silence, then folded the parchment neatly.
The pieces were slowly moving across the board, and their Commander remained in the center, blissfully unaware of just how many hearts followed her with devotion and wariness alike.
****
Kane, unable to contain his growing worry, hastily activates the sigil comm link to contact the Order's base. After several failed attempts to reach Arasha directly, the link finally stabilizes—revealing the calm, unshakable face of Sir Garran on the other end.
Kane's voice bursts out before Garran could even greet him, "Where is she? Why hasn't she contacted me for a week? Is she hurt? Is she in danger? Why isn't she answering her link? Did something happen?!"
Garran blinked once, and then twice, his weathered face betraying the briefest flicker of amusement before settling back into his usual composed expression.
"Kane," he said with a slight tilt of his head, "if you give me at least five seconds without interruption, I might be able to answer one of those questions."
Kane's jaw tightened as he fought to calm himself. Garran's tone was calm but laced with authority—authority he had no choice but to respect. Still, his heart pounded as fear coiled in his gut.
"She's fine," Garran said slowly, like he was speaking to a cornered animal. "She's helping rebuild the outer districts of the holy city. The devastation was worse than expected, and the high priests requested an extended presence of her unit. She's been moving non-stop for days. That's why she hasn't responded."
Kane was about to let out a breath of relief when he caught something Garran said. "Wait—the holy city?" he repeated sharply, eyes widening. "No, no, no—Sir Garran, something bad is supposed to happen there. I—I mean—!"
Before he could fully panic again, Garran's expression turned cold and sharp as steel. "You're a squire, Kane. You don't get to question her judgement. Especially not with the experience she carries."
The rebuke struck like a slap, and Kane visibly flinched. "I… I'm sorry," he mumbled, eyes downcast.
Garran's gaze softened ever so slightly. "Apology accepted. But if you're that concerned, then do something about it."
Kane looked up, puzzled.
"You want to stand beside her, don't you?" Garran asked, voice quiet but resolute. "Then you better hasten your growth. Strength, status, influence—whatever you think you need to become the man worthy of standing at the Commander's side… you'd better start now. Because whether you realize it or not, others already are."
The line cut off before Kane could reply, leaving him staring into the fading shimmer of the sigil link.
And so Kane stood in his quarters, the weight of Garran's words settling deep in his chest. His fists clenched.
"I will," he whispered. "I won't let anyone else take that place beside her."
****
The road southbound from the holy city shimmered in the waning moonlight as Arasha and her knights rode in measured pace—less hurried than their arrival, but no less vigilant. The holy city's faint silhouette disappeared behind the misted hills, replaced by open roads and dusky fields.
Arasha sat tall in the saddle, her cloak dusted from the weeks of rebuilding, her eyes thoughtful as she scanned the horizon.
The familiar crest of a merchant caravan fluttered into view just past a bend in the road.
Arasha raised her hand, signaling the knights to slow down. It didn't take long for her to recognize the ornate seal painted on the lead carriage.
Cassian.
She remembered the foreign young man from before—the one who had gifted her the salve during the hydra subjugation.
His easy smile and unusually keen magic sense had stuck with her, even amidst the chaos. But this time, his caravan was surrounded. Not by bandits or unruly terrain, but by a pack of northern dusk wolves—feral beasts with pitch-black fur and glowing silver eyes, never meant to roam this far south.
"Defensive formation!" Arasha commanded instantly.
The knights shifted without hesitation, spears drawn, shields raised, their presence forming a wall between the caravan and the wolves.
A tense moment passed as the wolves circled, jaws dripping with unnaturally thick saliva.
But Arasha's blessing had already begun to weave between her fingers—radiant, precise, and unwavering.
With a flash of light and a coordinated attack from her knights, the pack was broken in moments. One wolf fell from a well-placed arrow, another turned tail with a scorched flank, the rest scattered into the forest as if sensing Arasha's resolve was not to be tested.
Cassian, emerging from behind a defensive ward cast around his wagons, bowed deeply.
"Commander Arasha," he greeted, windblown but ever composed. "You really do arrive in time like a heroine from a bard's tale."
Arasha stepped forward, wiping wolf blood from her gauntlet with a cloth. "It's coincidence," she said dryly. "You should consider better scouts."
Cassian only chuckled. "Believe me, I've already dismissed half of them." His expression sobered.
"But in all seriousness—your aid today may have saved more than goods. Some of my people were injured. We are in your debt."
From one of the wagons, a box was produced and gently handed to Arasha.
Inside lay several sleek arcane tools—silver rings etched with runes, a crystal sphere glowing faintly with environmental mana, and a palm-sized device that seemed to pulse when exposed to hostile intent.
"These," Cassian explained, "are newly developed prototypes from my homeland. They haven't even entered circulation yet. But I believe they belong with you. Consider it an investment—into peace. Into the future you're trying to protect."
Arasha looked at him, surprised. "That's a dangerous amount of trust."
Cassian gave her a soft, sincere smile. "So is your resolve."
Behind her, the knights exchanged wary glances. Cassian noticed, of course—but made no remark.
Instead, he offered a respectful nod to the men and women surrounding Arasha, his hands raised in a peaceable gesture. "I won't overstep," he said. "Only support. In whatever little way I can."
Arasha accepted the gift with a thoughtful look and a quiet "Thank you."
They parted shortly after, the caravan taking a slower, wider route south while Arasha and her knights pressed forward.
"It's alright," Arasha murmured to her knights later, noticing their tension. "He's not a threat. Not the kind we need to draw steel for."
"No, Commander," one said quietly, "but he's the kind we need to watch."
As their base came into view on the horizon—its newly improved walls and bustling grounds a testament to months of unseen effort—Arasha allowed herself a small, tired smile.
Home. For now.
****
The sun was just beginning to rise behind the eastern ridge when the base gates finally opened to welcome Commander Arasha and the knights who had accompanied her to the holy city. The air was crisp with the scent of damp earth and newly cut lumber, remnants of ongoing improvements around the grounds.
Arasha dismounted smoothly, her armor still bearing the scratches of battle, but her posture as straight and commanding as ever. Before Sir Garran could even reach the gate with the formal welcome he'd prepared, she had already turned to her squad.
"I'm proud of each one of you," she said sincerely, her gaze sweeping over the dozen knights who had followed her into the chaos of the borderlands. "Your discipline, bravery, and resolve upheld the Order's name. Go rest. Eat. You've earned it."
The knights bowed deeply, a few of them clearly reluctant to leave her side until she gave them a pointed look. Only then did they scatter, murmuring amongst themselves.
Sir Garran opened his mouth to speak—
But Arasha was gone.
By the time Garran caught up to her again, she was already halfway through the barracks row, taking brisk notes on the training grounds.
Her sharp eyes scanned the newly repaired tiling around the west wing, then flicked to the reinforced practice yard that now held newer dummies and obstacle setups.
Several squires froze mid-spar at the sight of her, only to be waved at and given a quick nod of approval.
Next, she ducked into the kitchens, speaking with the cook about ration quality, then into the infirmary to inspect supplies and check on the apprentice healers.
The quarters for non-combat staff were her next stop, where she spoke to a few quietly about comfort, safety, and meal frequency.
It wasn't until she rounded back toward the central courtyard—arms now full of ledgers and notes—that Sir Garran was able to catch her.
"Commander," he said, exasperation barely veiled. "You've been back less than an hour."
"I needed to see the progress for myself," Arasha replied plainly, flipping through a report she'd picked up from the logistics tent.
"You needed to rest," Garran corrected.
"I did rest."
"In the saddle?" he deadpanned.
That was when Leta arrived, arms crossed and brow raised in a mirror of Garran's mood.
"You can't call blinking 'rest,' Commander."
"I slept," Arasha defended weakly.
"On a stone floor next to a broken chapel," Garran said flatly.
"With a sword as a pillow," Leta added, rolling her eyes.
Their teamwork in scolding was seamless.
Arasha, flanked and outnumbered, finally exhaled a soft laugh and lifted her hands in surrender. "Fine. I'll eat. And rest. After one report—"
"After," Garran insisted, pointing toward the inner keep.
"And if you don't," Leta added sweetly, "I'll tell Kane that you collapsed again and had to be carried to your quarters by two knights."
That earned a brief stiffening in Arasha's spine, but the faintest hint of red touched her ears.
"I see your tactics have devolved to blackmail," Arasha muttered, turning toward the keep with a reluctant grace.
"And emotional sabotage," Garran called after her.
Arasha didn't dignify that with a reply, though her shoulders shook with the ghost of a chuckle.
Arasha then sighed, straightening as both of her closest aides stare at her like irritated parents.
"I wanted to see the changes first. The base feels different. More alive. And I needed to thank the people who made it happen."
"That can wait until after you eat breakfast and get some rest," Leta said firmly, tugging the ledgers out of Arasha's hands.
"Garran and I will handle the morning debrief. You go sit down, eat something, and if possible—don't sneak off to check the armory repairs."
Arasha opened her mouth to try to argue, but Garran raised a brow with a subtle hint of threat only a seasoned knight could wield without speaking.
"…Fine," she relented with a quiet chuckle. "But only if you promise to update me after the review."
Leta rolled her eyes. "Of course. Now go. Before I start quoting the Order's health protocols at you."
As Arasha finally allowed herself to be gently escorted toward the mess hall, she glanced once more around the lively base—squires training, staff moving supplies, knights laughing softly under the morning sun.
It was far from perfect, but it was home.
And it was growing stronger, day by day.
****
Peace settled briefly over the base again—but in the minds of her most trusted, they all knew it was only a matter of time before the next fire required Arasha's steady hand.
In the dim, golden hush of late afternoon, the commander's office lay still. Papers were neatly stacked, reports sorted, and a half-finished cup of tea sat cooling by the window. The room held a sense of quiet exhaustion, of duties momentarily suspended.
Arasha sat at her desk, her armor exchanged for a loose tunic and simple trousers, though her command mantle still draped over the chair like a forgotten responsibility.
She stared down at the reports, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere—far from inked numbers and patrol logs.
Her fingers curled slightly over a fresh document detailing the latest monster surge along the border.
Another one, she thought. The fourth in less than two months. The patterns were shifting. Territories once untouched now echoed with blood and loss. Even the beasts themselves behaved unnaturally—more coordinated, more relentless.
First the blight-wolves from the north, she mused, and now the holy city suffering attacks from corrupted beasts unheard of for centuries…
Something dark moved beneath the surface of the land, and the timing gnawed at her.
These weren't isolated incidents anymore.
Her thoughts wandered to Sir Alvin, the holy paladin whose presence lingered even after she'd left the sacred city.
He had seemed like he wanted to say something—more than once. His hand had hovered near his gift before he'd finally offered it at the Moonlight Festival.
And yet, every time the conversation skirted anything personal or urgent, he backed down, swallowing his words with quiet reverence.
Arasha sighed softly. She didn't dislike him—he was brave, respectful, and sincere—but there was something weighed down in him too.
Secrets? Doubts?
She didn't know. And she wasn't sure she wanted to know right now.
Her gaze softened as her mind turned to the merchant she'd met again on the road—Cassian.
That man had the sharpness of a hawk but the easy charm of someone used to navigating courts and camps alike.
His gift not out of obligation or flattery, but as an investment toward the peace she fought for.
He sees the same future I do, she thought, the smallest flicker of warmth blooming in her chest. A world not held together by swords, but by shared purpose.
Her mind inevitably wandered to a familiar name. A familiar voice.
Kane.
It had been a few weeks since his last direct report, and though Sir Garran had given her summaries, she hadn't spoken with Kane herself.
She missed him, she realized absently. Missed his energy, his stubborn questions, and the way he tried to hide how much he worried about her.
Without thinking further, Arasha reached for her sigil-engraved comm link crystal and activated it.
Across the northern camp, the crystal on Kane's end flared to life.
"Commander?! Arasha?! You're calling?" Kane's voice cracked with surprise, followed by a flurry of frantic, overlapping questions. "Are you hurt? Why didn't you call sooner? Did something happen in the holy city? Did you get caught in something again? You're not bleeding, are you?!"
A laugh broke through Arasha's lips—soft, genuine, and rich with warmth.
"I'm fine, Kane," she said, smiling as if he were right there beside her. "Truly. I just… missed you, is all."
Kane choked on a word. "W-What?!"
"I missed hearing your voice," she teased lightly. "You're very loud, but it's oddly comforting."
There was a beat of silence, then a stammered, "I—That's—You can't just say that out of nowhere!"
Arasha only laughed again, the tension from the day melting from her shoulders.
"And how are you? You've been making progress, haven't you? Garran mentioned the Duke Lionel seemed impressed."
Kane, still flustered but trying to regain composure, launched into a half-rambled, half-proud update about his latest training milestones, a scouting exercise he successfully led, and how Lucian had sparred with him seriously now.
Arasha listened, a soft smile curving her lips as her chin gradually rested on her hand. The cadence of Kane's voice, animated and earnest, lulled her into a steady calm.
And slowly, her eyes fluttered closed.
Back in the north, Kane didn't notice at first until her responses became quieter… then none at all. On his crystal, he saw her—slumped forward slightly at her desk, soft hair falling over her cheek, face calm in sleep.
"…She fell asleep," he whispered, more to himself than anyone. The sight tugged at something in his chest.
Kane lingered a little longer, just watching her breathe evenly in peaceful slumber.
"…Sleep well, Arasha."
He disconnected the call silently.
Later that evening, Leta stepped into the office with the latest personnel files—only to stop at the doorway, sighing fondly.
There was Arasha, still at her desk, sound asleep, her usually composed figure looking just a little too tired even in rest.
Leta walked in quietly, draped a light wool blanket over her shoulders, and smoothed the hair from her Commander's brow.
"Sweet dreams, you ridiculous workaholic," Leta murmured, placing the report neatly on the corner of the desk. "And maybe dream of someone who'll tell you how much they care… before it's too late."
With one last glance, Leta turned the lamp lower and closed the door with care.