The air inside the tent was faintly perfumed. Outside, the camp’s noise was muffled to a distant hum. Near the center stood Lady Seraphyne. Tall and graceful in a flowing gown of deep blue velvet, the fabric catching the light like ripples on still water. Her long black hair, streaked subtly with silver, was drawn back into intricate braids in the old Viremyri fashion. For a long moment, she and Darcye simply looked at one another, a gulf of years and unspoken words stretching between them.

“It’s been so long since you returned to Vortalis,” she said at last, her voice carrying a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wanted to see my child’s face again. And ask when he plans to come home. Everyone is waiting.”

Darcye’s lips curved slightly, though the expression was too thin and deliberate to be called a smile. “Nanny Ebrin always told me, never flee from a fight, no matter how familiar the enemy’s face is.”

That landed like frost. A flicker passed through Seraphyne’s gaze, but she recovered quickly, moving toward a small side table. She busied herself with a tray, uncovering a dish of fresh fruit and a small jar. “I brought your favorites,” she said softly. “And that spiced jam you used to steal by the spoonful. You shouldn’t turn your back on the things you once loved.”

He turned toward her fully then, his voice quiet but honed like a blade. “Turning your back on those you love… seems like I inherited that skill.”

The silence between them thickened. Seraphyne’s hand lingered on the dish, as if she might still offer it. But she didn’t speak again.

Silence swelled between them, heavy and stifling. Her hand lingered on the dish as though she might still offer it, but she said nothing more. Darcye turned to leave. Just before stepping through the flap, he paused.

“You may wait if you want,” he said without looking back. “Just don’t expect the child you left to walk in. I came to win these lands and I intend to."  he said, not bothering to glance back. " Ah also, when you return… pass a word to Nanny Ebrin. Tell her I remember her. And I miss her. ”

Seraphyne’s lips parted slightly, a trace of hope softening her proud features. “And me?” she asked quietly. “Do you not remember me, Darcye?”

Slowly, he turned just enough for his profile to catch the dim sunlight. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but the bitterness beneath it was unmistakable. “Yes. I do. Whenever I see an orphan crying in the street, I remember you. Perhaps their mother, too, was bound to abandon them…just like you.”

He didn’t wait for her answer. “Have a safe trip back, Lady Seraphyne.”

Then he stepped out into the camp, letting the tent flap fall shut behind him, cutting off the faint perfume.

                                                         *************************************

That day felt as though the world had decided to pass through Darcye’s tent in waves. Lady Seraphyne had departed at mid-day. Night had barely settled its velvet cloak across the camp before another visitor came, as if fate itself had scheduled an unbroken chain of reckonings for him.

The tent was wide, shadowed by heavy drapes and maps strung across walls. The great table in the center was littered with scrolls, bone-carved miniatures and inked lines marking supply routes and choke points. On the eastern edge of the Ilvaran map, new strokes of crimson ink traced the slow, deliberate tightening of a noose. His strategies to bleed Elarion dry in measured cuts that would leave the nation gasping.

Darcye sat with his cloak discarded over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up. His eyes were closed, the war lived in his mind as much as on the parchment before him, every move already rehearsed in silence.

The flap stirred, letting in a draught of night air and the faint murmur of soldiers’ voices outside.

“My lord,” a servant’s voice broke the stillness, soft but urgent, “Prime Minister Vaelthorn has arrived.”

For the first time all day, Darcye’s hard expression softened, but subtly

“Send him in. Immediately.”

A man in his fifties entered. A long scar ran from his left cheek to the corner of his lips, distorting the faintest hint of a smile. Mavryn Vaelthorn, his once-bright ginger hair had faded to copper and iron, tied loosely at the nape. His presence was the sort that required no announcement, the guards stationed at the corners straightened without being told.

“By the speed” Mavryn said, his voice edged with dry amusement, “you now conquer provinces. Vortalis will soon need a bigger map.”

Darcye exhaled a soft scoff, almost a laugh. “You still bothers with compliments.”

Mavryn moved closer, the lamplight grazing the scar along his face. From within his cloak, he produced a worn, folded paper and set it on the war table.

“There’s movement near the southern pass,” he said. “Ilvaran remnants or maybe opportunists. I came to deliver it myself.”

Darcye’s eyes skimmed the paper briefly before returning to him. Without a word, he pushed his chair back. He crossed to the sideboard, uncorked a dark bottle, and poured deep crimson wine into two glasses. He returned with deliberate steps, offering one to Mavryn and said,

 “You didn’t come just to deliver a message.”

“No.” Mavryn’s gaze held his, taking the glass, with the weight of unspoken history pressing between them.