The night had quieted, but the echoes of battle still clung to the air.
Ilaria sat at the edge the bench, her sleeve torn back while Harken cleaned the gash on her arm. The cut was not deep, but it burned like fire. She flinched when the alcohol touched her skin, but the sting was nothing compared to the hollow ache sitting heavy in her chest.
Alonzo knelt beside her, holding a roll of clean bandage as he watched the Captain tending to the princess' arm. His expression was tight, guilt carved deep into it. "I should've been faster," he muttered. "If I hadn't—"
"It wasn't your fault," she interrupted softly. Her voice was steady, but it sounded like she was forcing calm through a crack that wanted to break. "It caught us all off guard. You got hurt too," she said, motioning to his scraped hand.
