I found him where I expected—on the frontlines, clad in war-stained armor, issuing orders with the same unwavering authority that had built this kingdom. He looked older.
Not in years, but in the way war had worn him down, had carved its weight into his bones. I knew that look. I had worn it too.
Cyrus turned as I dismounted, his sharp eyes meeting mine across the chaos of the camp. For a moment, he simply stared.
Then, without a word, he strode toward me.
"You should not be here." His voice was even, but there was something beneath it—relief, frustration, concern tangled together in a knot he wouldn't untangle.
I lifted my chin. "And yet, here I am."
His eyes flickered over me, assessing, measuring. "Your injuries—"
"Are healed."
His lips pressed into a line. "You say that as if your curse does not still haunt you."
I clenched my fists. "Azov is losing ground." I gestured to the battlefield beyond. "How many have died because I was not here?"
Cyrus exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. He was tired. Too tired.
"Damn you, Lavina," he muttered. "You don't change."
"Neither does war," I replied. "Let me fight."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, his gaze hardened.
"If you want to fight," he said, voice low, dangerous, "then prove to me that you can still win."