The cliffs were silent, the air so clear that every breath seemed sharper, every sound magnified. The diamond mines below lay abandoned for the night, the scaffolds and tools nothing more than shadows against the ridges and jagged spikes.
Hiral dismounted, letting his horse graze against the sparse scrub. For once, he did not stand vigilant, nor pace with a mind chained to strategy.
Instead, he sat.
He drew his knees to his chest, arms circling them, and lowered his head until his brow pressed lightly against fabric. It was a posture unworthy of a general, one that surrendered mobility should an ambush strike.
But here, under the vast quiet sky, Hiral allowed himself the rare indulgence of trust—that the night would remain still, if only for this brief span.
His eyes drifted closed, and memory carried him away.
The wide skies of his childhood stretched before him, bluer than any banner. His mother's laughter rang in his ears, urging him to run faster, to let the wind race against his skin.
He remembered his cheeks flushed red, the grass brushing his ankles, and the way she would chase after him with feigned ferocity before swooping him into her arms.
They would tumble down onto the cushioned rug she had spread earlier, her embrace warm, her voice filled with light.
A small smile curved his lips. For a fleeting moment, it was enough.
But the warmth did not last. The present crept back in like shadow. The looming confrontation weighed on his chest—the trust of his soldiers, their loyalty bought with more than words but with his every action, every choice that tethered their fates to his.
The Empress's hand clenched around his reins, her demands like iron shackles.
And above it all, a fear that struck deeper than blades: to meet Alexis on the battlefield, to face the man who had slipped past armor and strategy alike, settling into a place in his heart he had never meant to leave unguarded.
The smile faded.
A tear slipped free, unbidden.
He wiped it away quickly, before the wind could carry it as evidence against him.
It was then he felt it—the faint shift in the air, the quiet weight of another's presence. His instincts sharpened at once, even as his outward composure held steady.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he eased his posture into something more suitable for combat, ready should this visitor mean harm.
Yet he did not reach for his blade.
His voice broke the stillness, low but clear.
"Here to admire the moonlight as well, General Alexis?"
He did not turn, did not need to look, for he was certain.
****
The barren lands stretched wide, the night sky spilling silver light across ridges and stone.
Alexis had ridden with no clear destination, only the restless pull of memory drawing him back to where it had all begun. His horse's hooves muffled against the dry ground as he drew closer to the cliffs.
And then he saw it.
A figure seated at the very edge of the world, knees drawn up, head bowed as though in prayer or surrender.
For a moment, Alexis could not breathe.
Even from a distance, even blurred by moonlight, he could never mistake that silhouette.
Hiral.
He pulled the reins tight, bringing his horse to a halt a few miles away, but his eyes would not move.
They fixed on Hiral with a force he could not resist, as though the cliff itself had carved him into being.
This was not the unflinching general, nor the untouchable strategist of the Empress's court.
This was someone else—fragile, unguarded, terribly human.
Alexis had not seen him like this. He had never dared imagine it.
He told himself not to intrude, not to break this rare stillness. But then Hiral lifted a hand, quick, almost ashamed, to wipe at his eyes.
That single gesture unraveled Alexis's restraint.
His chest clenched, his throat tightened, and the urge—the need—to reach him overcame every calculation, every fear.
By the time he realized it, he had already swung down from his horse. Already his boots pressed against the earth, carrying him forward.
He walked without thought, only the pounding in his ears reminding him how reckless this was.
And then Hiral's voice cut through the night. Calm, steady, knowing.
"Here to admire the moonlight as well, General Alexis?"
Alexis stilled. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, managed only a single word.
"…Yeah."
Step by step, he closed the distance. Hiral's back came into view, straight now, but it seemed lonelier than the stars overhead.
Something in Alexis broke at that sight, and before doubt could catch him, he drew the robe from his shoulders and draped it over Hiral's.
The gesture felt clumsy, insufficient, but it was all he could give to soften that loneliness.
Then, without asking permission, he lowered himself beside him. For a moment, he let the silence linger, their shoulders close but not yet touching.
He turned, unable to resist, and saw Hiral's profile in the moonlight—dark eyes still glistening, though the tears had already been wiped away.
His hand moved before thought could catch it. Gently, carefully, he let his fingers brush Hiral's cheek, thumb tracing the faint dampness there.
He wiped the remnants of sorrow as if erasing proof of it from the world.
Hiral did not flinch. He did not stop him. He let him.
Hiral's eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment under Alexis's touch, then, with practiced gentleness, he lifted his hand and pushed Alexis's away.
Not harshly—never harshly—but enough to remind them both of the line neither dared to cross.
"What brought you here at this time, General Alexis?"
His voice was steady, though his composure was still cracked at the edges, faint moonlight clinging to the trace of his vulnerability.
Alexis hesitated, lips parting before he could second-guess himself.
"…Yearning."
He left it there, raw and unpolished, like a truth too heavy to dress in clever words.
The silence that followed was not suffocating but strangely full, like the stillness before dawn.
Then, to Alexis's surprise, a soft chuckle escaped Hiral's lips.
His eyes closed, his expression eased into something almost wistful.
"…I'm the same."
Alexis's chest tightened.
He had never heard Hiral speak in that tone—unguarded, faintly playful, edged with a bittersweet undertone.
The contrast from the calm, collected Hiral he had known was staggering.
Irresistible.
"I missed you, Hiral," Alexis admitted, the words spilling before he could stop them. "You've always been in my mind."
Hiral let out a small snort, eyes still turned toward the horizon. "You too were always in mine… mostly in ways I thought of how to counter you."
For a moment, Alexis just stared—and then laughter bubbled out of him, unrestrained. "I didn't know you had humor."
Hiral finally looked his way, a faint smile curving his lips. "Always had."
Their gazes met and held.
In that locked stare, they saw reflections—two shadows bound by war, two souls pulled closer by something neither could deny.
Alexis saw himself in Hiral's eyes, raw and unmasked, and he knew Hiral saw the same in his.
But Hiral was the first to break. He turned his head away, retreating behind the faint armor of distance.
"Hiral," Alexis whispered, voice soft and achingly tender.
He said it again, slower, sweeter, as though the name itself was something sacred.
"Hiral…" His voice carried longing, a plea woven into each repetition.
At last, Hiral looked back. But before Alexis could speak further, Hiral raised a hand and covered his mouth, the gesture trembling, desperate.
"…Don't."
It wasn't command. It was a plea, fragile and aching, as if one word more would shatter what thin thread of control he clung to.
Alexis froze, then exhaled a long sigh against Hiral's palm. Slowly, he nodded. He would not force what could not yet be named.
Instead, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around Hiral's hand, holding it firmly between both of his own.
His grip was steady, unwavering, an unspoken vow that he would not let go—not now.
And Hiral, though his eyes glistened with the weight of everything unsaid, did not pull away.