Damien's sword never left his side. Even when he slept, his hand remained close enough to brush the hilt. It wasn't paranoia; it was muscle memory, a discipline carved into him through years of war and betrayal. He had trusted before. Trusted generals, comrades, commanders who promised they'd stand until the end—and one by one, he had buried them all.
So when he watched Clara trembling in Evelyn's arms, when he caught Zeke tracing sigils in the dirt with that unreadable calm, when he heard Evelyn whisper oaths in the dark that sounded more like desperation than strength… Damien felt the old blade inside his chest twist.
They're all going to break, he thought. And when they do, it will be my sword that decides who survives.
The firelight painted shadows across Clara's face. Her sleep was restless, every breath uneven, as though something beneath her skin stirred and whispered in dreams the others couldn't hear. Damien had seen possession before, seen tether-magic leave cracks in the soul that never healed. He didn't need Zeke's cold logic or Evelyn's fragile hope to tell him what was obvious: Clara was a battlefield, one Yurin Crimson already walked.
And Damien had no patience for carrying battlefields on his back.
But there was a problem.
He liked her.
Not in the way Evelyn clung to her—not with desperate loyalty or trembling hands. Damien's attachment was quieter, sharper. Clara was brave in ways that infuriated him, stubborn in ways that reminded him of a younger version of himself. She fought even when her knees shook, even when her voice cracked. She had once laughed at him after barely surviving a skirmish, teasing him for looking like he was "permanently constipated." It had been the first time in years someone had mocked him without malice.
He hated that memory. He hated that it weakened his resolve now.
If it comes down to it, can I really do it? Can I end her before Yurin takes her completely?
His grip tightened on his sword. He remembered another battlefield, years ago, when his commander had been taken over by a tether far stronger than Clara's. Damien had hesitated then. Just for a heartbeat. That heartbeat had cost his entire unit their lives.
Never again.
He stood abruptly and moved away from the fire. The night air was sharp, the stars cold above. His boots crunched against frost-slick grass as he walked to the ridge overlooking their camp. Below, the forest spread like a sea of black needles, and in the distance, faint crimson light pulsed on the horizon. Yurin's corruption. The land itself shuddered from his presence.
Damien let the cold bite into him, grounding him. He drew his blade, resting it across his knees as he sat on the ridge. The steel caught the moonlight, gleaming faintly. A weapon of clarity. A reminder that hesitation was death.
"Talking to yourself again?"
Zeke's voice slid from the shadows. Damien didn't flinch. He had known the strategist was following him—Zeke was too careful to leave someone unmonitored when tensions were this high.
"You don't sleep," Damien muttered.
"Neither do you."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound the whisper of wind through dead branches.
Finally, Damien spoke. "If it comes to it, you'd do it, wouldn't you? End her."
Zeke didn't look surprised. His gaze stayed on the horizon. "If that's what the numbers demand, yes."
Damien's jaw clenched. "You talk about people like they're ledgers."
"They are," Zeke said calmly. "Survival is arithmetic. If Clara tips the balance against us, then keeping her alive is already a deficit. The only question is when we pay the cost."
Damien wanted to hate him for the words. But the truth was, they echoed too close to his own thoughts.
"Evelyn won't let it happen," Damien said.
"Evelyn," Zeke replied with a faint scoff, "is blinded. She clings to Clara because she needs her. Not because Clara is strong enough to stand. That kind of dependency is dangerous. For all of us."
Damien turned his sword in his hands, staring at the edge. Zeke wasn't wrong. Evelyn's attachment to Clara was emotional, raw, consuming. She had sworn she'd "fall with her." Noble words. Stupid words. Words that would get them all killed.
Damien exhaled through his teeth. "If it comes to it, I'll be the one."
That finally drew Zeke's eyes. "You'd bear that weight?"
"I already do," Damien said flatly. "Better my hands than yours. Better me than Evelyn. She'd never recover."
Silence stretched again. This time, Zeke didn't argue. He simply nodded once, as though tallying another number into his invisible ledger.
When Damien returned to the fire, Clara stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a brief second, her gaze locked on his. There was fear there—fear she tried to hide behind a small, shaky smile. It broke something in him.
Because he realized then that she already knew. She knew they doubted her. She knew they whispered about her fate when she slept. And still, she smiled.
Damien turned away before she could see the guilt crack across his face.
As he lay down, his sword pressed between him and the ground, he closed his eyes. But sleep did not come. All he saw was Clara's smile… and the memory of another commander, screaming as a tether consumed him because Damien had hesitated.
This time, he swore, he would not falter.
Even if the blade had to fall on someone who made him remember how to smile again.