Asher
The battlefield reeked of iron.
Blood soaked into the dirt, thick and metallic in the air, clinging to the back of my throat with every breath. Smoke still curled from the ruins where the last of Adrian's forces had fallen, threads of black twisting into the night sky. The moans of the wounded rose from the shadows, men clutching their bellies, their throats, their broken limbs. Some called for mercy. Others simply whispered prayers that would not be answered.
I had lived through enough wars to know how to look away. To let the cries become background noise. To remind myself that every man bleeding out on the ground had chosen his side. And yet, tonight, it was harder to separate. Because the chaos of it all was her doing.
Rose.
She stood at the heart of the carnage, her silhouette cut against the glow of firelight. Her hair was tangled, dark curls plastered against her temple where sweat and blood mingled, but she carried herself like the battlefield belonged to her. Like she had always been meant to command the storm. Her chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, but I could see the faint tremor in her hands, the tightening around her jaw. She wasn't unscathed she never was but she refused to fall in front of anyone.
Anyone but him.
Cassian was at her side, crouched low as he cleaned a shallow cut along her arm. His hands moved with a precision that spoke of long practice, familiarity, and his voice low, coaxing and carried something almost gentle. Too gentle. He murmured something I couldn't hear, and then I caught it.
Rosie.
The name was like a blade slipped between my ribs. Intimate. Possessive. I'd never heard anyone call her that. It belonged to him. And she let him.
Her lips curved in response, just slightly, the ghost of a smile. Small. Fleeting. But it was enough to undo me.
I told myself it meant nothing. That Cassian and Rose were bound by shared battles and bloodshed I hadn't been there for. That his presence at her side was history, not preference. But the lie tasted bitter.
Because the truth was this every touch he laid on her, every glance that passed between them, widened a crack inside me I couldn't close.
I clenched my jaw till they ached. I turned away before my expression betrayed me, forcing my focus toward the men dragging themselves from the mud. They looked to me for orders, for steadiness, for clarity. That was my role. My mask. Discipline incarnate. I wore it well.
But the storm inside me raged.
Later, inside the half-ruined manor we had claimed for the night, the war council convened.
The room was lit by lanterns that threw long shadows across the cracked plaster walls. A massive oak table dominated the space, maps spread across it, marked with ink and ash and the bloodstains of men who hadn't lived to see tonight.
Rose stood at the head, as she always did, and every eye was drawn to her.
She didn't need to raise her voice to command the room. When she spoke, her words sliced through the noise, shaping the chaos into strategy. She traced lines on the map with her fingers, marking out Adrian's supply routes, predicting his countermoves before anyone else could voice them. She was ruthless, unflinching, terrifying in her clarity.
And beautiful.
I watched her as she dismantled the war on parchment, the firelight catching in her eyes, the curve of her mouth tightening when someone challenged her plan. She met each objection with cold precision, her tongue as sharp as any blade.
But what burned me most was not her brilliance. It was the man standing at her side.
Cassian.
He leaned in when she spoke, murmured quiet confirmations that steadied her stance. She didn't need them, but she accepted them. Trusted them. I watched her glance at him, her gaze flicking to his like an anchor. And every time she did, I felt the fire in my chest roar hotter.
When she turned to me, though, when her eyes locked with mine, the world narrowed. Her stare was sharper with me — challenging, unyielding. She expected me to push back, to question, to test the strength of her plan. And I did. Not because I doubted her, but because I wanted her to see me. To know that I was not simply another soldier at her disposal, not simply a shadow at the edge of the room.
For those moments, it felt like we were the only two people in the world.
But then Cassian leaned forward, brushed his hand over the map beside hers, and she looked back at him. And just like that, I was reminded: I wasn't the only one who had her ear.
The council dragged on into the early hours, voices rising and falling, the weight of the next battle pressing down on us. When at last she dismissed them, her authority echoing like a verdict, the men filed out, leaving only silence in their wake.
I lingered.
I always lingered.
I found her later, alone by the window of the chamber she'd claimed for herself.
The moonlight painted her in silver, catching in the strands of her hair, illuminating the cuts along her arms and the bandage she was clumsily attempting to secure on her palm. Her movements were steady but slower now, weariness creeping into her shoulders in a way she'd never allow anyone else to see.
"Rose," I said quietly.
She didn't look up. "You should be resting."
"I could say the same to you."
That earned me the faintest quirk of her lips. "Rest isn't something people like us can afford."
I crossed the room slowly, cautious of breaking whatever fragile quiet hung between us. She kept her eyes on the bandage, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried to tie it. Without thinking, I reached out, taking the cloth from her hands.
She didn't pull away.
Carefully, I wrapped it myself, my fingers brushing against hers, against her skin. Warm. Alive. Too alive. For a heartbeat, everything else faded the war, the blood, the smoke. All that existed was her pulse beneath my fingertips.
"You don't have to carry this alone," I said, my voice low.
Her gaze snapped up, sharp and unyielding. "I've carried worse."
"I know." My throat tightened. "But let me help."
She shook her head, and the rejection stung more than it should have. "You wouldn't understand."
The words landed like a blade.
I forced myself to keep my tone even. "Cassian understands?"
For the first time, her mask slipped. Her eyes softened, her mouth parting as though to argue but she didn't. She didn't deny it.
"He's… been with me through it all," she said finally, her voice low. "He knows the parts of me I'd rather forget."
The knife twisted deeper.
I tied the bandage too tightly, earning a sharp hiss from her lips. "Sorry," I muttered, loosening it.
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than it should have. "You don't have to apologize, Asher."
Maybe not. But I wanted to demand more. To demand why she let him in, why she bared her scars to him but not to me. I wanted to ask if she knew what it did to me to watch, to stand on the outside while Cassian slipped through the cracks in her armor.
But I said nothing.
Because before I could, the door creaked open.
Cassian stepped in, his eyes immediately on her, scanning her injuries, the tension in his shoulders easing when he saw she was safe. His gaze flicked to mine, and though there was no overt challenge, the warning was there. Unspoken, but clear. Protect her, or I will.
Rose looked relieved to see him. Relieved.
I stepped back, my mask sliding into place again. Silent. Controlled. Invisible.
She didn't notice. She didn't see the storm I buried beneath discipline.
But one day, she would.
Adrian might be the enemy in the open, the war we all fought, but Cassian… Cassian was the rival I hadn't planned for.
And I would not lose her.