The war grew harsher with each passing month.
Rain soaked the battlefield for days without pause. The cold crept into armor and bone alike, and exhaustion haunted every soldier's eyes.
During one brutal clash near the eastern forest, a violent surge of magic erupted among the trees.
The ground itself shattered beneath the force of the spell.
Cassian barely managed to push several soldiers out of the way before fragments of stone tore through his shoulder.
Blood stained his uniform.
The surgeon who examined him shook his head firmly.
"You must rest, my prince. This wound is not minor."
Cassian ignored the advice.
Later that night he sat alone within his command tent, his arm bandaged tightly.
Before him lay parchment and ink.
His hand trembled slightly as he began writing again.
"My beloved Maria,
Forgive the poor condition of my handwriting. The battlefield offers little comfort for proper correspondence."
He paused, pressing his fingers against the bandage on his shoulder.
"Today I witnessed things I pray you never will. Men driven mad by whispers in the fog. Shadows moving where no living creature stands."
The lantern flame flickered in the wind.
Yet his expression softened slightly as he continued writing.
"And still, the memory of your voice remains with me. I remember the garden fountain, the roses, and the way you used to laugh when I lost our childish duels."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"If fate is kind, I shall hear that laughter again."
He sealed the letter carefully.
Even as pain throbbed through his wounded shoulder, he began writing another.
And another.
Because writing to her made the endless war feel less lonely.