Garn woke to wood and quiet.

  Not the forest’s quiet.

  Not the kind that hunted.

  This was a barracks quiet—stale air, old pine boards, the faint smell of sweat that had sunk into bunks and never fully left. Somewhere outside, Log Town still screamed with saws and hammers, but the sound was muffled here, like the building was trying to pretend war didn’t exist.

  His head throbbed.

  His mouth was dry.

  His body felt like it had been dragged back from somewhere and dropped into itself without permission.

  Garn blinked at the ceiling.

  He didn’t remember lying down.

  He remembered running.

  He remembered fog.

  He remembered the sudden, clean cut of the world.

  Then nothing.

  He shifted, trying to sit up.

  A hand pressed down on his chest.

  Soft.

  Shaking.

  “Lay down,” a small voice said.

  Garn froze.

  He turned his head.

  Hannah sat beside his bed—too close. Too still. Spear nowhere in sight. Just a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor she didn’t know how to wear.

  Her eyes were red.

  Tears clung to her lashes like she’d been crying and hadn’t stopped long enough for her face to reset.

  Garn stared at her.

  “…What?” he rasped.

  Hannah didn’t answer the question.

  Her palm stayed on his chest, pushing him back like she could keep the world from changing if she held him in place.

  “Lay down,” she repeated.

  Garn’s brow furrowed.

  He pushed himself up anyway.

  Hannah panicked—just a flicker—and pressed harder.

  Not to hurt him.

  To stop him.

  “No,” she whispered, voice breaking. “No. Please—”

  Garn blinked at her.

  He sat up halfway.

  Hannah shoved him down again, gentler this time, like she was terrified of being too rough.

  Garn hit the mattress with a soft thump.

  He stared up at the ceiling again.

  Then at her.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, voice rough.

  That question—simple, blunt—snapped something.

  Hannah blinked like she’d been asleep standing up.

  Her gaze finally focused.

  She swallowed hard.

  “Watching over you,” she said.

  Garn frowned. “Why?”

  Hannah’s throat bobbed. Her eyes shimmered again.

  “Because Titus—” She sniffed hard on his name like the word itself hurt. “Because Titus told me to.”

  She looked away fast, embarrassed by the tears, embarrassed by the weakness, embarrassed by being seen.

  Then she returned to the posture she’d been wearing like a mask: straight spine, hands folded tight, eyes forward, face blank.

  Except the tears didn’t respect masks.

  “Just lay down,” Hannah said, voice too flat. “Then I can do my job.”

  Garn stared at her.

  Something about it felt wrong.

  Not the order.

  Not the fact Titus had assigned her.

  The way she was clinging to the job like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

  Outside the thin wall, someone shouted a watch change.

  Boots passed.

  A door opened and closed.

  A low murmur—Vincent’s voice, quieter than usual—then silence again.

  The camp was awake.

  The war was awake.

  And Hannah was sitting beside his bed like sleep was a battlefield she had to hold.

  Akash’s voice drifted behind Garn’s eyes—quiet, observant.

  This child is traumatized, she murmured.

  Garn didn’t respond.

  Akash continued, almost amused at her own surprise.

  I’m surprised you aren’t. But maybe being born from a warring barbarian makes you… durable.

  Garn’s jaw tightened.

  He tried to sit up again.

  Hannah’s hand snapped out immediately to push him down.

  He didn’t budge.

  Hannah blinked.

  She tried again, firmer.

  Still nothing.

  Garn’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  Hannah’s mouth opened like she couldn’t understand how her body had failed her orders.

  So she used both hands.

  Pressed down on his shoulder and chest like she could pin him with sheer need.

  Garn still didn’t move.

  Hannah’s breath hitched.

  Her eyes widened with a panic she hadn’t had in the forest—because in the forest, panic was death and she’d trained it away.

  Here, in a room that smelled like wood and safety, panic had room to live.

  Hannah stood up.

  She leaned over him, trying to push him down with force now—tiny body demanding authority it couldn’t hold anymore.

  “Stop,” Garn said quietly.

  Hannah didn’t hear him.

  Or maybe she did and couldn’t.

  Her hands shook as she shoved, and the blanket slipped from one shoulder, revealing bruises on her collarbone and forearm—old training marks, new scrapes, the kind of small damage that stacked until a body started lying about being fine.

  Garn watched her hands.

  Watched her face.

  Watched the way her eyes refused to look at the empty bunk across the room.

  Two bunks over.

  Two bunks that had been filled days ago.

  Now stripped.

  Now silent.

  Garn’s mind slipped sideways.

  Not into sleep.

  Into memory.

  A pressure in his chest that wasn’t Hannah’s hands.

  A different weight.

  Older.

  Hotter.

  A road. A world. A blade in his hand that wasn’t this one.

  A laugh beside him.

  Talos.

  Not the Talos of stories.

  Talos with dust on his boots and blood on his sleeve, grinning anyway like the world was worth mocking.

  A villa doorway.

  Camellia’s eyes—sharp, steady—watching him like she already knew what he was and chose to stand in front of it anyway.

  Run, she had told him.

  Not because he was wrong.

  Because the world would decide he was.

  And then—

  the bell.

  The Church.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Runa’s light.

  Falkor’s will.

  Faces turning from awe to calculation.

  And later—later—

  the lie breaking.

  A demon’s power flashing white.

  And the people who had trusted him—

  the ones who had seen him save them—

  dead for it.

  Burned.

  Purged.

  Silenced.

  Because witnesses were dangerous when they believed the wrong miracle.

  Garn’s throat tightened.

  His eyes snapped back to the present.

  Hannah was still pushing.

  Tears ran down her face now, silent and furious, like her body had decided this was another mission she was failing.

  She looked useless.

  She looked small.

  She looked like she’d been trying to hold a whole world together with her hands and finally realized hands weren’t enough.

  And Garn—

  Garn knew that feeling.

  He’d lived it.

  He’d worn it.

  He’d swallowed it until it became part of his bones.

  Hannah’s hands shook.

  Her voice cracked.

  “I have to—” she whispered. “I have to—”

  Garn moved.

  Not fast like Titus.

  Not clean like Damien.

  Just present.

  He caught her wrists gently and guided her hands away from his chest.

  Hannah stumbled forward—

  and fell into him.

  She froze, shocked by the contact.

  Then she jerked, trying to pull away like being held was a mistake.

  Garn wrapped his arms around her.

  Not tight enough to trap.

  Just enough to hold.

  Hannah’s breath hitched.

  She tried to stand again.

  Garn didn’t let her slip away.

  His voice came out low.

  “This is not the end,” he said.

  Hannah went still.

  Then her body started shaking again.

  She lifted her head, eyes furious and wet.

  “You must’ve known them for a while,” Garn said quietly. “For it to hit you like this.”

  That did it.

  Hannah snapped like a wire pulled too hard.

  “How would you know?!” she shouted, voice cracking into raw grief. “HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?!”

  Her fists hit his chest once—weak, angry, helpless.

  Then again.

  “We trained for years!” Hannah cried. “YEARS!”

  Her voice broke.

  “I knew them since I was twelve,” she said, the words spilling out like blood. “Amanda was like my big sister. Eliot was like my real brother.”

  Her breath shuddered.

  She looked like she wanted to hate Garn for seeing her like this.

  Like she wanted to blame him for surviving.

  Like she wanted to blame herself more.

  She couldn’t find the energy.

  Garn loosened his grip slightly so she could breathe.

  Hannah looked up at his face.

  His eyes were red.

  They always were.

  But they didn’t look like his usual.

  Not bored.

  Not mad.

  Not pretending nothing mattered.

  They looked… tired.

  Sad.

  Weak in a way she recognized.

  Like everything she said had happened to him too once.

  Akash stayed silent.

  Watching.

  A question forming behind her amusement.

  What the hell happened to this child? she wondered, and didn’t ask aloud.

  Hannah’s shoulders sagged.

  Her fight drained out of her.

  And instead of pushing away again—

  she hugged him back.

  Small arms around his ribs, face pressed into his chest like she could hide from the world there for one breath.

  Garn didn’t speak.

  He just held her.

  Because he didn’t know how to fix the dead.

  Because he didn’t know how to erase a slash that had cut a girl in half.

  Because he didn’t know how to silence a Crown-ranked smile.

  But he could do this.

  He could hold someone while they shook.

  He could share the weight for one breath.

  And for a heartbeat, the war outside didn’t matter.

  Just two people in a barracks room, holding the only thing they still had control over—

  each other’s breathing.

  The door creaked.

  Boots crossed the threshold.

  Hannah stiffened instantly, embarrassed, trying to pull back like she’d been caught committing a crime.

  Garn didn’t let her fling herself away like she’d done something wrong.

  He lifted his head.

  Riktor stood in the doorway like a wall that had learned how to breathe.

  Broad shoulders. Scarred hands. Crimson presence without needing to announce it. His gaze swept the room in one pass—bed, Hannah, Garn’s bruises, the empty bunks.

  Then his eyes widened slightly—

  and his mouth curved.

  Titus was beside him—calm, faintly amused, eyes half-lidded like he’d walked into a comedy instead of a grief scene.

  And behind them were two unfamiliar faces.

  One looked like a weapon that had been tempered too long and never learned how to soften.

  Eric.

  Tempered stage.

  His posture was solid. Quiet strength. Eyes scanning the room like a soldier entering a new battlefield.

  Beside Eric stood a man whose presence felt heavier—denser—like he carried a different kind of gravity.

  Gregory.

  Vessel stage.

  His gaze hit Garn first, then Hannah’s arms, then Garn’s bruised face.

  His expression twisted.

  Not shock.

  Disgust.

  Like he’d walked into something beneath him.

  Riktor leaned into the moment like fate had handed him a gift.

  “Oh?” Riktor said, voice rich with teasing. “The most prominent recruit of my order gets frisky during threats of war?”

  Hannah’s face went bright red instantly.

  She made a small sound of horror and buried her face deeper into Garn’s chest in pure humiliation.

  Garn’s eyes widened.

  “What—”

  Gregory made a small sound—half scoff, half grunt.

  Eric looked away immediately, ears turning red as if he’d been forced to witness something illegal.

  Titus said nothing.

  He just smiled.

  Not big.

  Not cruel.

  A small, knowing curve like he’d expected the human part of soldiers to break eventually and found it… interesting.

  Garn tried to sit up fully now, body protesting.

  Hannah’s arms tightened for one panicked heartbeat—then loosened as she realized that made it look worse.

  Riktor’s grin widened like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.

  “Relax,” Titus said lazily, as if they were the ones being dramatic. “He didn’t die.”

  Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “He should be on watch rotation, not in bed.”

  Damien’s voice came from somewhere outside the doorway, flat and strict.

  “He collapsed after the return. Titus ordered rest.”

  Gregory looked annoyed that someone had corrected him.

  Riktor’s eyes flicked to Garn’s bruises.

  Then to Hannah’s red face.

  Then to the empty bunks again.

  His grin softened for half a second—barely.

  Then it returned.

  He was a commander. Humor was a tool.

  So was discomfort.

  So was pressure.

  He stepped in one pace.

  “What happened,” Riktor said—not teasing now.

  It wasn’t a question for entertainment.

  It was a command.

  Hannah forced herself to lift her head.

  Her eyes were still wet.

  Her face was still red.

  She straightened like she was bracing for a strike.

  “Watch duty,” Hannah said. “Titus assigned me. Garn woke up disoriented.”

  Riktor’s gaze settled on her.

  “Disoriented?” he repeated.

  Garn’s jaw tightened.

  “Memories,” Garn said quietly.

  Titus’s eyelid lifted a fraction, like that word had weight.

  Riktor nodded once like he’d file it away.

  Gregory’s mouth twisted. “Sounds like weakness.”

  Titus’s smile didn’t change.

  But the air around him did.

  Not pressure.

  A suggestion.

  A warning.

  Gregory felt it—just enough—and shut his mouth.

  Riktor’s gaze moved again.

  “Where are the others?” he asked.

  Hannah’s throat bobbed.

  “Greyson and Julien are on rotation,” she said. “Amira is outside. Vincent too. Zamora—”

  The door banged again.

  Fast footsteps.

  A sharp inhale.

  And Zamora appeared in the doorway like a storm given legs, weighted staff in hand, eyes wide with fury and disbelief.

  “GARN?!” she shouted.

  Her voice cracked halfway through the word like it had hit a wall inside her chest.

  Then it came out louder.

  “YOU’RE DOING WHAT?!”

  Hannah made a small noise of horror and buried her face deeper into Garn’s chest again.

  Garn looked from Zamora to Riktor to Titus to Eric to Gregory, like his brain was trying to catch up with the way the room had turned into a misunderstanding trap.

  His mouth opened.

  He closed it.

  He opened it again.

  “I can explain,” Garn said finally.

  Riktor’s grin widened like this was a gift that kept giving.

  Titus’s smile didn’t move.

  Gregory looked like he wanted to leave the room forever.

  Eric looked like he wanted to sink into the floorboards.

  Zamora’s eyes burned.

  Her grip on the staff tightened like she wanted to split the bed in half with it.

  Hannah didn’t look up.

  And Garn, for the first time in days, felt something close to normal fear.

  Not of a Crown-ranked hunter.

  Not of Orion.

  Not of death.

  Of being judged by people who didn’t know what they were seeing.

  “I can explain,” Garn repeated.

  Zamora took one step forward.

  Her breath was tight.

  Her eyes flicked to Hannah’s tears.

  Then to Garn’s bruises.

  Then to Riktor’s grin.

  Her anger hesitated—just for a heartbeat—confused by too many truths at once.

  Riktor saw that hesitation and leaned into it like a knife.

  “Oh, let him,” Riktor said, amusement heavy. “This is important diplomacy.”

  “Titus,” Damien’s voice snapped from the hall, warning.

  Titus shrugged lazily. “He’ll survive.”

  Zamora’s gaze snapped to Titus like she wanted to challenge him.

  Then she remembered she couldn’t.

  Not yet.

  So she stared at Garn instead, breathing hard, staff trembling faintly.

  Garn looked down at Hannah.

  Then back at Zamora.

  Then at the men in the doorway.

  His jaw tightened.

  He was tired.

  He was hurt.

  He was not in the mood to be made into a joke.

  “Hannah was on watch duty,” Garn said, voice low. “I woke up. She—”

  Hannah’s face went redder.

  Riktor’s grin widened.

  Zamora’s eyes narrowed like she was bracing for the worst.

  Garn continued anyway.

  “She lost people,” Garn said. “She broke. I… held her. That’s it.”

  Silence hit the room.

  Not complete silence.

  But enough.

  Riktor’s grin stalled—just slightly.

  Eric’s posture softened a fraction, shame creeping into his eyes for assuming.

  Gregory still looked disgusted, but it was the disgust of a man annoyed that grief existed where he could see it.

  Titus’s smile stayed small, but his eyes sharpened for half a heartbeat—approval hidden inside watching Garn say it clean.

  Zamora’s anger didn’t vanish.

  But it shifted.

  Her grip loosened a fraction.

  Her eyes flicked to Hannah’s tears again.

  Hannah finally lifted her head, face still red, eyes still wet, jaw clenched like she wanted to disappear.

  Zamora swallowed hard.

  She didn’t apologize.

  Not yet.

  But her voice came quieter.

  “…Watch duty?” she repeated.

  Damien stepped into the doorway behind her, face strict, gaze steady.

  “Titus assigned it,” Damien said. “To keep Garn from doing something stupid while injured.”

  Vincent’s voice floated from outside, too soft to be a joke. “And to keep Hannah from being alone.”

  That landed different.

  Hannah flinched like she’d been struck.

  Riktor cleared his throat once, and the commander voice returned.

  “Good,” Riktor said, quieter now. “Then you’ll all be lined up in ten. Report meeting.”

  Zamora stiffened automatically.

  Hannah’s face went pale for a heartbeat—then she nodded.

  Garn exhaled slow.

  Titus turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded again, bored by the resolution.

  “Try not to fall in love before breakfast,” Titus said.

  Hannah made a small sound of pure misery.

  Zamora’s grip tightened again, offended that Titus could joke.

  Riktor’s grin returned, smaller this time, controlled.

  And Garn—Garn stared at the ceiling once more.

  Because the room had turned into a war all its own.

  And the worst part was—

  he was still alive to fight it.