Long before curses, before hidden watchtowers soaked in frost and regret, before he became the man whispered of in fear—Rodrik Vanhart once allowed himself to dream.
And that dream had a name.
Elira Malloren.
There was a time when the battlefield was not his only war.
That night, he remembered it clearly. Perhaps because it was the last memory where he looked up at the light instead of down into his shadow.
Under the Chandelier of Victory
It was the banquet following the winter campaign at Feldrake Gorge. A hard-won battle. House Vanhart received formal commendation for pushing back northern raiders. The great hall of the imperial border post was dressed in silks and banners shimmering like fire dancing across frost.
Rodrik had stood at the edge of the hall, armor removed, dressed in a simple black military tunic, medals pinned in modest rows. He was never one to enjoy such parades. The laughter, clinking goblets, dancing—things that seemed more appropriate to a world untouched by blood.
His eyes searched the crowd not for threat.
But for escape.
And then, he saw her.
Elira Malloren.
The daughter of Viscount Malloren's elder sister. A noblewoman of poise and quiet grace. She wore a deep forest-green gown that complemented the fall of her auburn hair, swept back with delicate silver pins. Her posture was elegant, neither flaunting nobility nor concealing it. Under candlelight, she moved like calm upon water.
She had been sent as an envoy from House Malloren to congratulate Vanhart's forces.
Rodrik had met her gaze across the hall.
Something shifted.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… softened.
For the first time in weeks, he allowed his shoulders to ease.
Perhaps she noticed.
Their First Conversation
She approached with a courtesy practiced yet earnest.
"Commander Rodrik Vanhart," she said softly. Her voice was clear—lower in tone than most noblewomen, shaped by restraint rather than performance.
Rodrik bowed slightly.
"Lady Elira Malloren."
"I have heard tales of the campaign," she said, eyes steady on his, "but the soldiers speak less of your tactics… and more of how you carried the wounded yourself through the snow after the final clash."
Rodrik was silent a moment.
Then:
"Orders did not instruct me to leave them behind."
Elira's lips gently curved.
"And yet," she replied, "many commanders would have."
Rodrik had no answer.
She stepped closer, though still at a polite distance.
"You do not enjoy this celebration."
"No."
"Why?"
Rodrik looked at the chandelier swaying above them. Light scattering like false stars.
"Because victory should be remembered," he said quietly, "but not celebrated."
"Why so?"
"…Because victory walks beside loss. To toast one and ignore the other is… incomplete."
Elira held her breath briefly.
"I see." Her fingers tightened subtly around her goblet. "Then perhaps tonight, instead of celebration… we commemorate."
Rodrik studied her then. Found no vanity in her words.
And for the first time that night, he nodded.
"A more fitting word."
She smiled.
And something inside him shifted.
Ever so slightly.
Meeting in Secret
Days passed.
He found himself writing to her—short, precise letters. She responded with quiet thoughtfulness. What started as duty soon became something more.
They began meeting in the soldier's library, the one no noble visited. She asked about his battles, his decisions, his view of leadership. He asked about her thoughts on governance, on healing the scars left by war, on whether peace required strength—or compassion.
One evening, by the dim light of a single oil lamp, she asked:
"Rodrik… what do you desire for yourself?"
He hesitated.
"I do not ask desires for myself."
She looked at him, unsatisfied.
"You lead others tirelessly—fight for the estate, the people, the borders. But if someday you choose to rest… what would remain for you?"
He did not look at her.
But his reply was softer than the night.
"…A home."
She blinked, surprised.
"A home?" she echoed.
"A hearth with warmth. A table with laughter. Two chairs." He paused, almost startled at his own words. "Children running through halls. A wife waiting by the window as the sun sets."
He looked up then.
Elira's eyes widened slightly.
And though she said nothing, the way her breath caught told him she understood.
The Proposal
Weeks later, under the pretense of delivering reports to the capital, Rodrik arranged for a private meeting with Elira in the Vanhart rose conservatory.
It was a quiet evening.
Winter at the threshold.
Only stubborn blooms remained, pale red beneath protective glass.
She arrived wearing a simple wool mantle, hair tied back. No formal decoration. Just herself.
Rodrik stood by the frost-tipped roses.
When their eyes met, he didn't waste time with ceremony.
"Lady Elira," he began, voice steady but low, "I have known steel and storm my whole life. But the space between your words taught me something beyond command."
Elira's hands trembled slightly.
Rodrik stepped forward.
"I do not offer promises of peace," he said. "Nor assurances of an easy life. But I offer… that I will stand before all storms. And at the end of them, return to you."
He exhaled.
"I ask—not as commander, nor as heir—for you to consider walking beside me as wife."
Silence.
Then her eyes lowered.
Her voice barely above breath.
"Rodrik…"
He waited.
She closed her eyes.
"…I will answer you in writing."
His jaw tightened.
"Very well."
She left.
That moment, he allowed himself something rare.
Hope.
The Letter
Three days later.
A thin envelope.
Her handwriting—delicate, slanted.
His heart pounded once.
Twice.
He broke the seal.
Read slowly.
Rodrik,
I have thought upon your words. You speak of storms with such familiarity that I fear you no longer recognize when they are inside you.
You deserve warmth and peace—but I do not believe I am the one who can give it. I fear my presence would only remind you of battles you have yet to put down.
I do not see our future together.
Please forget me.
—Elira
The paper crumpled slightly beneath his fingers.
His vision blurred—but not with tears.
Just… emptiness.
The last light that tried to reach him.
Extinguished.
The Shattering
He didn't rage.
He didn't weep.
He folded the letter carefully, placed it inside his breast pocket, and went to the drilling field.
And he trained until his hands bled.
Until he could no longer distinguish pain from purpose.
Until exhaustion finally forced sleep.
He woke the next morning before dawn.
Donning armor.
Claimed his command.
And rode to the next border conflict without a word to anyone.
From that day forward, his orders held no softness.
His tactics no restraint.
His victories no solace.
Because hope had died quietly—
on a page no larger than his palm.
Now.
Rodrik sat in the cold of the watchtower.
Snow falling.
Memory burning.
His voice barely more than vapor.
"It wasn't the battlefield that broke me," he whispered.
"It was… what waited beyond it."
His hand moved over where the letter once was.
A ghost of touch.
"I protected everyone," he murmured, eyes hollow, "but the one thing I wished to protect… I could not even reach."
The fire in the brazier dimmed.
And Rodrik's silhouette leaned back—
caught between snow
and silence.