While General Odin was lost in his reverie, Asael lay on the forest floor some distance away from him beside a quiet stream, beneath a canopy of stars and ash-gray sky. His arm was his pillow. The moonlight slicing through the trees just enough to reveal the longing etched into his face.
"Bella…" he whispered, his voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. "I miss you. I hope you and our child are safe."
Beside him, Galahad stirred at the sound, concern flickering across his face.
"She's in Calma," he said. "Lara made sure of it. She'll be alright, brother. She should be fine."
Asael nodded faintly, the ache in his chest tightening like a vise.
Arabella was Sigfrid, his best friend's younger sister. His shadow for years. At first, he was annoyed by her. She wore her devotion on her face, and he felt that she was very clingy. Her love had once felt suffocating—her loyalty too pure, too bright for someone like him, a soldier hardened by war.
