The very next day, Laury went straight to the soldiers' camp and trained the boys without mercy, as if exhaustion could burn her image out of his mind.
But it didn't.
Margaret followed him everywhere—
in the clash of swords,
in the mud beneath his boots,
in the memory of the castle hall where he had seen her not as purity, but as danger.
She was wearing a majestic red dress.
A crown upon her head.
Her strength undisguised, her gaze sharp enough to cut.
She hadn't looked like a queen meant to be protected—
she had looked like a curse waiting to be awakened.
That same morning, Margaret received a letter from Sani Scabar.
War would begin in two months.
Their soldiers would march soon, under the excuse of "order."
She didn't hesitate.
She moved toward the soldiers' camp with quick, deliberate steps. One by one, people bowed as she passed. This time, everything about her carried weight—her dress, her walk, her silence. Her presence pressed against the air like a threat.
She stopped in front of Laury.
No greeting.
No softness.
"Is two months enough to win?" she asked.
The sound of her voice struck him harder than any blade.
"Pardon me?" he replied, though he had heard her perfectly.
"I will tell the minister to bring more men from the people," she said.
Laury shook his head slowly. "It will be enough—if we give it everything. If we work until there is nothing left of us."
She stepped closer.
"Laury," she said quietly, dangerously, "you won't leave us. No matter the condition."
Something dark tightened inside him.
"I would never," he answered. "But if anyone gets hurt—especially those close to me—I won't think twice. I will burn every path in my way. I swear, I will keep everyone safe."
His eyes lifted to her.
Only then did he truly see her.
The power.
The authority.
The way the world seemed to lean toward her will.
She flipped her hair back, slow and deliberate—
and the sky broke.
Rain fell suddenly, heavy and cold, as if the heavens themselves had bowed to the tension between them.
As if something ancient had been stirred.
As if this bond—this pull—was not love…
…but a curse neither of them could escape.