Date: Year 931 — Month 1 — Day 4Location: Southern Foothills, near Brudenburg Outpost
The fire in the stone hearth burned low, its embers glowing orange beneath a resting half-log. Faint crackles broke the stillness, casting quiet shadows across the timbered walls. The scent of pinewood lingered in the air — mixed with something older, colder — the iron tang of medals tucked away in drawers, polished too many times, worn too long.
This had once been a soldier's house.
Now, it was a home.
Pale morning light slipped between heavy curtains, slicing across the wooden floor in golden lines. Dust rose gently in the sunbeams, drifting like ash. Everything felt slower here. Softer. Like time itself had paused out of respect.
On the wide bed, beneath soft white linen, a woman stirred.
Her blonde hair glowed like spun gold in the morning light, scattered across the pillow in loose waves. She was around thirty — young by years, aged by waiting. A stillness lived in her eyes, the kind born of long absences and quiet promises. As she blinked toward the hearth, her shoulders rose with a slow, sleepy breath.
"…Mmm…" she exhaled, stretching her arms beneath the blanket.
Beside her, Wilhelm Drossen sat at the edge of the bed, already awake. His back was bare, broad, and scarred — lines like pale tree roots crossed his spine, remnants of decades spent beneath steel and leather. His posture was still sharp, still disciplined. His gray-streaked hair was combed neatly, and his gaze was fixed on the window, where the evergreens outside danced gently in the wind.
He hadn't moved in minutes.
"You're awake early," she murmured, her voice soft with affection.
He didn't turn at first, but he smiled — just slightly, just enough to be seen.
"So are you," he said.
She rose behind him, bare shoulders catching the light, and gently wrapped her arms around his chest. Her cheek pressed against his back. She kissed one of his old scars — the long one, near his right shoulder blade.
"Good morning, General," she whispered into his skin.
He let out a low laugh — warm, but quiet.
"Not for much longer."
She tightened her arms around him.
"I'll still call you that. Even when you forget what rank you wore."
He rested his hand over hers.
"I won't forget," he said. "I'll polish the medals. Now and then. Just to remember who I was."
There was silence again. Only the faint popping of pinewood, and the call of crows in the trees beyond.
"…So," she said gently, "you're leaving for the capital today?"
He nodded once.
"Mm. My final orders. They're calling it retirement. I suppose that's what happens when your war ends."
She pulled her head back slightly and looked at him.
"Your war isn't over. Not in your heart."
He turned to her then — slowly, deliberately — and kissed her lips. Not out of urgency. Not even passion. But memory.
The kind of kiss that says goodbye to a life you built together… without truly leaving it behind.
Then he stood.
She watched him cross the room, the light catching the lines of his shoulders. He moved toward the brass coat rack beside the window. Hanging there, polished and ready, was his trench coat — black, double-breasted, with clean gold trim along the shoulders. An Iron Cross shimmered at the chest. His crimson armband was folded beneath one sleeve. The rank bar — General — was stitched high above the heart.
He took a long breath before putting it on.
It fit like second skin.
"No shower?" she teased, raising an eyebrow as she drew the blanket closer.
He adjusted the collar without turning.
"It can wait. This is more important."
He faced her then — fully, squarely — and his expression softened. His eyes, once cold and calculating, now held something else.
Warmth.
"I love you," he said.
She smiled — not surprised, but grateful. Like she'd waited years to hear it in the quiet of a morning like this.
"I know," she whispered. "I've always known."
He took a step toward the door, then paused. His hand rested on the frame.
"…Can you make roast today?" he asked, as if it had just occurred to him.
She stood — not bothering to hide her body from the morning light — and padded toward the dresser.
"Of course," she replied. Then, with a playful smirk: "But only if you promise to try the other thing I've been preparing…"
He turned slightly, curious.
"Oh?"
She leaned against the dresser, teasing.
"My dessert," she said, eyes glinting. "It's… experimental. Might change your life."
He smiled, for real this time.
"I can't wait to taste your main course."
She laughed. Then, with sudden tenderness, picked up one of his medals — a silver one from years ago, chipped at the edge — and tossed it underhand.
He caught it cleanly.
"Don't forget that one," she said. "You earned it."
He pinned it gently to his coat, just beneath the Iron Cross.
Then he gave her one last look — full of memory, respect, and love.
And walked out the door. His boots echoed softly down the hall.
The fire flickered. The sunlight shifted. And the woman stood alone in the doorway, hand on her heart, smiling through silence.