War did not welcome Sir Alaric Vayne gently.
It never did.
The eastern fields of Eldoria were soaked in mud and fear. Smoke clung to the air like a curse, and the screams of dying men echoed long after the battles ended. Alaric fought as he always had—precise, ruthless, unstoppable.
Yet something had changed.
Between every clash of steel, between every fallen enemy, his thoughts betrayed him.
Elara.
At night, when the campfires burned low and the soldiers slept, Alaric removed the silver-thread charm from beneath his armor. His fingers traced the rough wood again and again, as if it could pull him back to that quiet forest cottage.
Peace had a face now.
And it haunted him.
Elara waited.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Every morning, she walked to the forest path where he had disappeared. Every evening, she returned home with hope bruised but alive. She healed villagers, mixed medicines, smiled when required—but her eyes constantly searched for a shadow that never came.
One night, a wounded messenger arrived.
He carried a letter sealed with wax, stained dark at the edges.
Her hands shook as she opened it.
Elara,
I write this with a blade resting beside my heart and death standing close enough to listen.
The war is uglier than before. We are winning, they say—but victory feels like another word for loss.
I have killed men who begged me to stop. I see their faces when I close my eyes.
But when I touch the charm you gave me, I remember your voice. I remember that someone once saw me as more than a weapon.
If I return, it will be because of you.
— Alaric
Elara pressed the letter to her chest.
Tears fell silently onto the page.
That night, she wrote back.
Alaric,
The forest is still waiting. The cottage too.
People come to me broken every day. I mend them. But I don't know how to mend the fear I feel for you.
Still, I believe promises don't die easily.
Come back as yourself. Not as a knight.
— Elara
But not all letters reach their destination.
The war grew fiercer. Messengers were slain. Camps were burned. Silence replaced words.
Weeks turned into months.
No letters came.
Elara began to fear the quiet more than bad news.
On the battlefield, Alaric was struck down one evening—an arrow tearing through his shoulder. He survived, barely. As he lay bleeding beneath a torn sky, he laughed bitterly.
"So this is how it ends," he whispered.
He clutched the charm.
"Not yet," he told himself. "I promised."
Far away, Elara woke suddenly that same night, heart racing, as if something precious had almost slipped away.
Fate was tightening its grip.
And neither of them could see how close tragedy truly was.