The night after the serpent riders fell, the city did not sleep.
Fires burned in the northern districts, smoke rising into the cold sky like silent prayers. Healers moved through makeshift infirmaries, wrapping wounds that would scar deeper than flesh.
Selene walked through the camps quietly, her crimson cloak trailing behind her. She stopped at every soldier who met her gaze, no matter how lowly their rank, no matter how stained their armor.
Some called her reckless for doing this.
But she needed them to see her not just as a symbol.
She needed them to see her as a person.
And she needed to see them, too.
Lucien watched from the shadows, golden eyes narrowed. He let her have this moment, but his pulse thrummed with quiet worry.
"You should rest," he whispered when they finally returned to the war chamber hours later.
Selene's eyes flicked to him, red irises gleaming softly in the candlelight.
"So should you."
Neither of them moved.
In the end, it was Lira who interrupted them, voice tight.
"We've lost eighty-three soldiers," she reported, laying scrolls on the table. "Twenty-seven mercenaries. Fourteen beastkin."
Her voice faltered. "And… Captain Serina Vale."
Selene's fingers curled slightly at her side.
Lucien's jaw tensed.
"She knew the risk," Selene whispered. "She chose it."
But the ache in her chest didn't fade.
When Lira left, silence settled between them.
Not the cold silence of strategy meetings, but the private kind.
The kind only lovers shared when the world outside was breaking.
Lucien crossed the distance first.
He set his sword aside and reached for her, fingers brushing the edge of her crimson cloak. His hands were still stained with serpent blood, but Selene didn't flinch.
She pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes.
"I hate this part," she whispered.
Lucien's golden gaze stayed steady. "Which part?"
"The part where we survive but lose pieces of ourselves."
His breath ghosted against her lips.
"I'll help you find them again."
They didn't undress like lovers in fairytales.
They stripped each other's armor with quiet efficiency, unbuckling clasps, peeling back layers of leather and steel.
No silk sheets.
No perfumed candles.
Only the cold floor of the war room, their bodies pressed close beneath the weight of exhaustion and grief.
Their kisses tasted of ash and iron.
But their hands were soft.
Always soft.
This wasn't about desire.
It was about remembrance.
A vow not to forget why they fought.
Or for whom.
Afterward, Selene lay with her head on Lucien's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.
For a moment, the world outside faded.
No kingdoms.
No battles.
Just them.
And the crimson snow drifting silently beyond the window.
But dawn would come.
It always did.
And when it did, they would put their armor back on.
Because love was not a retreat from war.
It was the reason for it.