The fire crackled low in the trench, casting long shadows against the jagged rocks. Asha sat with her back to the others, her blade across her knees. No one spoke. No one dared. The scouts had spotted movement just past the ridge — large, too fast for wolves, too quiet for men.
She closed her eyes.
That Night — In Sleep
The dream came suddenly.
She was standing in the old mango grove behind the healer's hut. Summer had just broken — the trees heavy with golden fruit, the air warm with pollen and crushed grass. But the place was empty.
Except for him.
He stood barefoot, pale, the sun casting light through his thin tunic. He was watching her. Not angry. Not betrayed.
Just broken.
"You left," he said, not accusingly, but softly, like a child who found an empty room and didn't understand why.
Asha stepped forward. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know." He looked down at his hands. "I think I'm dreaming."
Her lip trembled. "Then forget me."
"No," he said firmly. "Not in this life. Not in the next. Not ever."
She wanted to run into his arms. Gods, she wanted it more than anything. But she stepped back instead.
"I don't want you to see me die."
He frowned. "Why would you say that?"
Asha looked away. "Because that's what's going to happen. I came here to die. I chose to die. Before they could choose you."
He stood still for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked:
"I would've chosen to die for you."
She let the words fall. "That's why I couldn't let you."
The dream began to fade. The grove around them flickered like candlelight in the wind.
"Don't come after me," she whispered as the trees turned to smoke.
But he was already gone.
(Even in her dream, she relived the truth: he would have followed her into death if he knew, as he often promised under the mango tree. She had to prevent that—his love could have destroyed him in the same way the war would.)
Back in the Village
When searching for the routes, The fever had claimed him, leaving him unconscious for hours. When he stirred, it was only a half-awake haze, chest heaving, sweat soaking his hair and clothes. His fingers closed instinctively around the wooden ring she had left him — still warm, still a heartbeat of her presence.
He forced himself upright, lungs screaming, ignoring the ache. The room was empty. The scent of her lingered — rain on soil, sun-dried cloth, cloves — a cruel reminder that she was gone.
Without hesitation, he wrapped his chest and lungs in tight cloth, tied a scarf around his neck, and slipped through the broken gate behind the granary. The guards wouldn't notice until morning.
He knew the old paths — the trails children used to sneak along during harvest games. The map she had once drawn on his palm with a stick of coal. Every memory, every trace of her guided him forward. He would find her. Even into the fire.
Meanwhile — Asha
The sky had turned violet as dawn crept closer. The captain gave a signal. They rose from the trench in silence. Asha didn't flinch. Her blade was steady.
But her heart —
Her heart was screaming.
And far behind her, through a shadowed forest full of thorns and ghosts, someone she thought she'd never see again had already begun running toward the battlefield.