The meeting had ended, yet silence lingered like a shadow over the planning room. As Mikel was escorted to the infirmary, Pablo remained standing before the maps, though his eyes no longer truly saw them. The red and black markings, the lines of strategy, all blurred under the weight of another image: the face of the sergeant who had dared to confront him with words so simple, so direct, so impossible to ignore.
"I won't let you die sitting at a desk."
The phrase repeated itself like an echo in his mind, louder than any advice from his generals, more sincere than any speech. He had heard a thousand voices throughout the war, but this one pierced him like an arrow.
With a sigh, Pablo sank into the metal chair, elbows resting on the table, hands covering his face. It wasn't common for a mere soldier to leave such an immediate impression. And yet, here it was—his presence etched into the king's memory with a clarity that refused to fade.
In the corridors, Mikel moved slowly, his steps firm despite the pain in his shoulder. The improvised bandage barely held, and each movement sent a sharp sting through him, but he would not allow himself to show weakness. Soldiers who recognized him along the way looked at him with respect, some even with surprise. Not everyone survived the frontier—much less returned on their own two feet.
"Sergeant Ysván," a lieutenant greeted, straightening at the sight of him.
"At ease," Mikel replied with a brief nod, never breaking stride.
The infirmary smelled of medicinal herbs, alcohol, and dried blood. Doctors and aides rushed about tending to the wounded. When Mikel entered, a young trainee approached with clean bandages and boiled water, but he raised his hand.
"Later. I want… a report first." His voice was hoarse, firm, making it clear his priority was not himself.
The boy hesitated but nodded, leaving him be. Mikel sat on an empty cot, jaw clenched. The pain was real, but the memory of the king weighed heavier. He had never spoken face to face with him before. Never felt that his words could matter so much. And yet, in those gray eyes he had glimpsed something few acknowledged: loneliness.
Hours later, deep into the night, Pablo finally left the room. He walked the narrow hallways of the base, guards bowing as he passed, but he turned away from his chambers. He didn't know exactly why, only that his steps led him toward the infirmary.
When he arrived, the room was half-empty. The silence was broken only by the murmur of exhausted medics. And there was Mikel, seated on a bench, shoulder now more properly bandaged, eyes fixed on the floor. He wasn't asleep, nor at rest—he was awake, as though refusing to let down his guard even here.
Pablo paused at the entrance, watching without announcing himself. Strange… He had seen thousands of soldiers, all alike in discipline and appearance. But not Mikel. There was something that set him apart, something that made him unique: not strength, nor even bravery, but the stubborn calm of a man who asked nothing for himself.
"You shouldn't be awake," Pablo said at last, his voice soft but firm, breaking the silence.
Mikel slowly lifted his gaze, startled to see the king himself there in the dim light of the infirmary. He straightened awkwardly, trying to rise.
"Your Majesty…" he began, with visible effort.
Pablo raised a hand, stopping him.
"No. Stay seated."
Silence fell once more between them. The medics had withdrawn to another room, and for a moment it seemed the infirmary existed solely for the two of them.
"Why did you come here?" Mikel asked, almost incredulous.
Pablo looked straight at him, gray eyes glinting under the faint oil lamp.
"Because I wanted to confirm something."
"And what would that be?"
The king took a step closer, arms crossed.
"Whether your words were truly as firm as they seemed… or merely a passing impulse."
Mikel held his gaze without wavering, even tired and wounded.
"I don't take them back. What I said, I stand by it."
Pablo nodded slowly, as though he had expected that answer. For the first time in days, the tension in his shoulders eased a little.
"Good. Then perhaps… there is still hope for me."
The comment lingered in the air—ambiguous, almost intimate—and Mikel didn't know how to respond. He merely bowed his head, accepting the words in silence.
The murmur of the corridors had faded away. In the infirmary, only their breathing remained. Outside, rain drummed against the metal roof like a distant war drum, reminding them that the world hadn't stopped, even if time seemed slower for them both.
Pablo stepped closer, standing directly before Mikel. For a long moment, he said nothing. He simply observed, as though trying to decipher a riddle that no maps or strategies could solve.
"Tell me something, Sergeant," Pablo finally broke the silence, his voice low, almost confidential. "Why risk so much? Most men in your place would have accepted medical care, let themselves collapse, waited for orders. You, instead, came straight to me. Why?"
Mikel clenched his jaw, looking down at his calloused, dirt-stained hands. It took him several seconds to answer, as though searching for the right words.
"Because everyone talks about you, Your Majesty," he said at last, lifting his gaze with steady resolve. "About your immortality, your power, how you carry the destiny of the whole kingdom on your shoulders. But… no one sees you. No one looks at you as a man. I did. Today, I saw you—alone, surrounded by papers and shadows. And I knew that if someone didn't tell you the truth… we would lose you."
The silence grew heavier still. Pablo listened without interruption, his intense stare enough to unnerve anyone, yet Mikel did not look away. That raw honesty, unpolished and fearless, stirred in the king not offense, but relief.
"So… you saw me," Pablo repeated, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Mikel nodded.
"Yes. I saw weariness. But I also saw strength. Enough to keep going, if someone reminded you of it."
The confession hung between them like a shared secret. Pablo exhaled slowly, as though releasing a portion of the weight he never admitted aloud. He moved a step aside, leaning against the metal table, arms crossed, regarding him in profile.
"You're more direct than most of my advisors," he murmured.
"They see you as a king," Mikel answered simply. "I saw a man who should not fall."
Pablo lowered his gaze to the floor, thoughtful. He wasn't accustomed to such frankness. With the generals there was always hierarchy, protocol, filters. With Mikel, there was none of that. Only clear words, fearless.
"And what do you expect me to do with that?" he finally asked, his voice grave, almost challenging.
Mikel leaned forward slightly, meeting his gaze.
"To remember that you still have soldiers willing to follow you. Not to lock yourself in this room believing the war rests only on your shoulders. Let us bear part of the weight."
Pablo's breathing quickened slightly, barely noticeable. It had been so long since anyone had spoken to him like this—not as a subject, not as a devotee, but as an equal.
The king studied him for a long time, and in that look there was something new, something no officer would have understood. A recognition, almost a silent gratitude.
"What was your name again?" Pablo asked, though he already knew.
"Mikel Ysván." The sergeant straightened, as though reaffirming his identity.
Pablo repeated the name under his breath, testing it as though wanting to engrave it in memory.
"Mikel…"
The echo of the word filled the room. Mikel held his gaze, and for the first time allowed himself a faint, weary but sincere smile.
"Yes, Your Majesty. At your service."
The king shook his head slowly.
"No. Tonight… I don't want service. I only wanted to hear from a man who walked out of hell and still speaks like this."
Mikel blinked, taken aback. It wasn't the reply he expected. Yet instead of objecting, he merely inclined his head in quiet respect.
Outside, the rain lashed harder against the fortress walls. Inside, in the half-light, two men shared a moment that belonged neither to the war nor to the crown, but to the simple certainty of having found each other amidst the chaos