I woke up in a tent, the dim glow of lanterns flickering against the canvas walls. My limbs felt like lead. A cold cloth pressed against my forehead, and when I turned my head, I saw King Cyrus watching me from his seat.
"You've done enough," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You nearly killed yourself out there."
I swallowed, my throat raw. "But we won."
Cyrus exhaled through his nose—half a sigh, half a laugh. "Yes, we did. And you will be remembered as the hero who secured Azov's borders."
I pushed myself up, but the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through my chest. Cyrus didn't stop me—he knew I would move regardless.
"I'm assigning you to the Manor by the Southern Sea," he continued, watching my reaction carefully. "It's yours, along with the surrounding lands. A gift."
I frowned. "A gift… or an exile?"
"A command," he corrected. "You are to leave the frontlines and recover there. You will not return to war until I am satisfied that your injuries have fully healed."
I clenched my fists. The thought of being forced away from the battlefield twisted something ugly inside me. I belonged here, with the soldiers, not in some manor surrounded by peace.
Cyrus stood, stepping closer, his expression unreadable. "You swore loyalty to me. That includes following my orders."
I met his gaze, silent for a long moment.
"…As you wish, Your Majesty."
Even if I hated it, I would obey.