eyes."
"I wanted to," he admitted. "But I promised you I wouldn't harm the innocent. You reminded me of that promise."
Color touched her cheeks. "I only spoke the truth."
They moved together from soldier to soldier, binding wounds and lifting the injured. Vanda worked silently at first, but Daya's quiet determination lightened the heavy air. She asked for water, tore strips of cloth, murmured words of comfort to every person she touched.
"You've trained for war," she said after a while, "but you still tend wounds like a healer."
"My mother was both." The words surprised him as they left his mouth. "She taught me that strength means nothing if you can't protect life."
Daya glanced at him, curiosity and warmth mingling. "I would have liked her."
"She would have liked you," he replied before thinking. Their eyes met, and something unspoken hummed between them—something as dangerous as dragonfire.
A sudden tremor shook the courtyard as a wall finally gave way. Instinctively, Vanda wrapped an arm around Daya and pulled her close. She stiffened, then melted against him as dust clouded the air.
When the rumble faded, they remained like that, hearts pounding. Her scent—smoke, lavender, and something uniquely her—seared into his memory.
"Thank you," she breathed.
He forced himself to loosen his hold, though every instinct screamed to keep her there. "You shouldn't be here when the city is still unstable," he said, voice low. "I…couldn't bear if something happened to you."
Her eyes softened. "You keep saying that as if you frighten me. But you never have."
Vanda searched her face for fear and found only quiet courage. In that moment, the dragon within him stirred not with fury, but with an ache he didn't yet know how to name.
They finished their work as the first true rays of sunlight cut through the smoke, painting the broken stones in shades of gold. Merchants began to clear rubble from their stalls; a child chased a drifting ember as if it were a firefly. Life, impossibly, went on.
Vanda straightened and looked toward the distant royal tower where King Osric still slept or schemed. "This peace will not hold," he said. "Osric will retaliate. He will not forgive the humiliation of surrender."
"Then what happens next?" Daya asked.
"I confront him," Vanda answered, his voice like iron wrapped in flame. "But not today. Today belongs to the living—and to those who nearly died."
He turned back to her. Ash dusted her braid; fatigue shadowed her eyes. Yet she stood as steady as the dawn itself.
"You've risked everything for people who hardly know your name," he said quietly. "That is true courage, Daya."
Her lips curved in a weary smile. "I learned from you."
Vanda felt the dragon's heat rise again—not the fire of destruction, but something warmer, more dangerous. He had faced armies and tyrants, but the thought of losing this woman frightened him more than any blade.
For the first time in years, the dawn felt like hope.