Return of the General's Daughter

Bener's shoulders sagged as his gaze lingered on Shaya, sorrow clouding his eyes. There was a heaviness in his chest he could not shake—the silent wish that she would stay by his side. But the words he wanted to speak remained trapped in his throat, weighted by pride and fear.

"Why would you want to join the campaign againes Estalis?" His voice cracked, a raw edge of worry slipping through. "Isn't it dangerous?"

Shaya's eyes, bright with quiet determination, did not waver. "I want to tend to the wounded," she said softly. "We can also cook for the soldiers."

Bener shook his head, frustration tightening his features. "But the Phoenix Legion already has trained soldiers to handle wounds and injuries. There's no need for you to risk yourself."

She met his protest with calm defiance. "And if those same healers must fight, who will care for the fallen? Someone has to."

The answer stung him, though he refused to show it. In desperation, he grasped for words and let slip what he shouldn't. "Those are men, Shaya. You're… you're a woman."

The silence that followed was sharper than any blade. Too late, he realized his mistake. His eyes flicked to his sister, who pretended not to hear, though he knew she had. Guilt burned his cheeks.

Shaya, however, did not falter. "Aryana, Lazira, Marjan, and Veronica are coming as well," she said firmly. "Even Miss Lara will be there. Once we wear the soldiers' uniform, no one will see us as 'women.' Only as comrades."

Bener opened his mouth to argue, but the fire in her gaze made him falter. Her resolve shone too brightly, and his protests suddenly felt small. He turned instead to his sister, helpless. If not for her example—her courage—would Shaya even dare to step onto the battlefield?

His hand drifted to the bandages wrapped around his abdomen. With a flash of shamelessness, he said, "Sister, I know you have that special medicine—the one that speeds recovery. I can't bear being trapped in this infirmary. Can you give it to me?"

Lara arched a brow, her expression unreadable as she studied him. She knew exactly what scheme flickered behind his eyes. "I already applied it to you last night while you were sleeping," she said firmly. "Be patient. Let your body heal properly. Don't rush what cannot be rushed."

His jaw clenched, anger flaring in his eyes. "Damn that Duval. If not for him, I wouldn't be lying here. I swear, I'll hunt him down—no matter where he hides."

Lara exchanged a look with Alaric, then silently turned, leaving the Shaya and Bener alone.

As the door closed, Shaya stepped forward to change his bandage. Her hands hovered over the cloth when Bener's lips curved into a mischievous smile.

"You've already seen my body," he drawled lightly, "so you should take responsibility."

Shaya froze mid-motion, blinking at him in disbelief. "What?" Her voice carried no humor—only confusion and an edge of warning.

"I mean—" Bener stammered, trying to backtrack.

But she cut him off, her tone sharp as steel. "I've seen the bodies of a few soldiers, Bener. Do you mean I should take responsibility for all of them?"

His breath caught in his throat, words choking before they could form.

Shaya did not soften. She had endured too much to be rattled by teasing. In Westalis, she would have recoiled from even brushing a man's skin, terrified it would ruin her reputation and brand her as a whore. But Lara's unflinching grace as she dressed wounds and mended broken bodies had changed her.

Now, Shaya moved with steady hands and a healer's heart. Flesh was flesh, blood was blood. To her, there was no difference between a man or a woman when pain called for mercy.

Shaya tightened the last knot on Bener's bandage and sat back, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. Her fingers still tingled from the heat of his skin beneath her hands. She hated how aware she had become of every movement, every glance between them—yet she could not stop herself from looking.

Bener leaned against the pillows with mock nonchalance. "You've gotten rather good at this," he teased. "Why not stay? You're more useful here with me than out on the battlefield."

Shaya arched a brow. "If tending to you is my only calling, I'd say the gods have a cruel sense of humor."

"Cruel?" His grin widened, though there was a softness in his eyes. "Most women would be honored."

"Most women," she countered smoothly, "don't have to put up with your whining every time the bandage itches."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest. "Ah, so you admit you've been paying close attention to me."

Her cheeks warmed, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. "A healer notices everything. It doesn't mean you're special."

"Lies." His voice lowered, serious now. "I see the way you look at me when you think I'm asleep."

Shaya face turned beet red, heart leaping into her throat. "You—what are you talking about?"

"Don't deny it," Bener pressed, his tone light again but his gaze unwavering. "You sit by my bed, staring as though you're memorizing every scar."

Her lips parted, words caught between protest and confession. Finally, she huffed, reaching for the basin of water to distract herself. "Scars tell stories. As a healer, I should know them all."

Bener leaned forward, wincing slightly but unwilling to break the moment. "Then what story does this one tell?" He pulled at the collar of his shirt, revealing the a recently healed line that cut across his collarbone.

Shaya's hand faltered, the cloth dripping water back into the basin. She remembered the night in the mountains, he had come back with that wound, half-conscious, blood soaking his tunic. She had been the one to stitch it closed with trembling hands.

"That story," she said softly, meeting his eyes, "tells of a man too reckless for his own good."

"And the woman who saved him," Bener added, his voice almost a whisper.

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with something neither dared name.

Shaya cleared her throat and dipped the cloth again, pressing it gently to his arm. "Rest, Bener. You'll need your strength if you're truly so intent on chasing Duval."

He tilted his head, studying her with a half-smile. "And if I fall again, you'll be there to catch me, won't you?"

Shaya rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. "If you keep talking, I might let you fall just to teach you a lesson."

"Then I'd fall gladly," Bener murmured, "so long as it's into your hands."

Her breath hitched, but she forced a laugh, shaking her head. "You really are impossible. Why are you so noisy today?"

It is because you are leaving tomorrow and I am going to miss you. Bener looked down to hide the gloom in his eyes.

Shaya busied herself with gathering the bandages, but her hands trembled ever so slightly. For the first time since arriving in the infirmary, she feared not the battlefield beyond the walls—but the battle in her own heart.