The battlefield had changed.
Or perhaps…
Selara had.
Where once she rode with sharp precision and calculated command, now there was something darker in her presence. Something restless. Something simmering.
The soldiers felt it.
No one dared speak of it.
But they felt it.
Her strikes had grown merciless.
Her movements sharper, harsher, fueled by something no training could teach.
Grief had not weakened her.
It had twisted her.
Steel clashed violently.
An enemy soldier fell beneath her blade with brutal finality. Selara barely registered the impact, barely heard the cries echoing around her.
All she felt…
Was rage.
Hot.
Unrelenting.
Insatiable.
Every enemy face blurred into a single, haunting truth.
Something was taken from me.
And the battlefield became the only place where that truth could breathe.
Aren watched from afar.
Heart pounding.
Because this was not the Selara he knew.
Not the warrior.
Not the woman.
This was something breaking loose from restraint.
Something terrifying.
Something self-destructive.
Later, beneath the dim glow of the medic tent, silence stretched between them like a drawn blade.
Selara removed her gauntlets slowly, movements tense, shoulders rigid.
Aren stood near the entrance.
Watching.
Waiting.
Finally—
"You're going back tomorrow."
It was not a question.
Selara did not look at him.
"Yes."
The single word landed like stone.
Aren's jaw tightened.
"You shouldn't."
Selara's hands stilled.
Then resumed.
"I have no choice."
"You do."
Her gaze snapped to him.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
"War does not wait for my grief."
"This isn't about war."
Selara's eyes darkened.
"No?"
"This is about you trying to bleed your pain into the battlefield."
The words struck harder than any blade.
Selara rose abruptly.
"You think I fight recklessly?"
"I think," Aren said carefully, "you fight like someone who no longer fears death."
Silence exploded between them.
Thick.
Violent.
Unstable.
Selara's voice trembled — not with weakness, but fury.
"They took my child, Aren."
"I know."
"They took everything."
"I know."
"And you ask me to sit here? To breathe? To live as though nothing was stolen from me?!"
Her voice cracked.
Raw.
Wounded.
Human.
Aren stepped closer.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
"I'm asking you not to destroy yourself."
Selara laughed bitterly.
Cold.
"You cannot understand."
Aren froze.
Because that…
That cut deep.
"I held you while you cried," he said quietly.
"I buried our child in my own heart."
Selara's expression faltered.
But only briefly.
"You think this rage will heal you?" Aren asked softly.
"It is the only thing keeping me standing."
"No," he whispered.
"It's the thing tearing you apart."
The words ignited something volatile.
Selara's eyes burned.
"You want me to what, Aren?"
"Forget?"
"Move on?"
"Smile again?"
"I want you alive."
"I am alive."
"You're barely breathing."
Silence.
Heavy.
Crushing.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them surrendered.
Because grief had become a third presence between them.
Cold.
Relentless.
Unforgiving.
Selara's voice lowered.
Dangerously calm.
"I will return to battle."
Aren's chest tightened.
"And if I forbid it?"
Selara's gaze hardened.
"You cannot."
"I am your husband."
"And I am your commander."
The words shattered the fragile space between them.
Aren stepped back.
As though struck.
Pain flickered across his face.
Not anger.
Pain.
Because beneath the conflict lay a terrifying truth:
He was losing her.
Not to war.
But to the storm raging inside her.
"I cannot lose you too," he whispered.
And for the first time—
Selara hesitated.
Just slightly.
But grief was cruel.
And rage was louder.
"Then pray," she said quietly,
"…that war does not claim what sorrow already has."
She turned away.
Leaving Aren standing in silence.
Heart breaking.
Helpless.
Terrified of a future neither of them yet saw approaching.