For the first time in quite some time, Ilyana finally felt true pain. A feeling she had become so numb to that this feeling began to take her breath away. Her torso burned hotter than a flame, her shoulder heavy where the spear had ripped through. But most of all, the pain in her chest as she looked over the fallen men below, Caler’s shoulders. So many emotions flooded her system, many kinds she didn’t know she had. The fear she felt as she had tried to crest the hill had sparked so much adrenaline into her body that now began to fade. She hated this feeling. It all felt too strange for her.
Ilyana ignored Ivan once she knew he was safe, her attention falling to their men. Her strained voice barked orders, commanding them while Ivan took his time with whatever he was dealing with, she did not care at that moment. Diaval was in the distance, using his tail to whip snow over the fires, the charred bodies scattering the ground like small specks. Ilyana knew they had to move quickly, the one soldier who escaped surely was running for his life. Once Eloria found out, they would be coming. They needed to regroup, to tend to their wounded, to listen to her plans. Her mind at that moment already began racing, trying to find a solution to keep them alive, trying to block out the pain.

Ilyana finally got a moment to try and stand to her feet, her legs shivering as if someone had snapped them in too. Her teeth gritted tightly, her eyes tightening, fire burned through her ribs. Finally as she pulled herself to her feet, the open space beside her now was occupied, Ivan standing there, clueless, quiet. He opened his mouth to speak, his brows furrowed as he cautiously stood there. Ilyana didn’t know what was worse, the anger or the disappointment she felt, but all she knew was she could not deal with it right now, there was too much to do. Before Ivan could even try to let a sentence escape his lips, Ilyana gave him a deadly look, moving around him and walking towards the groups of soldiers that still remained.

Diaval took to the sky in the distance, his shadowing form soaring through the plumes of smoke and into the clouds. Ilyana barked more commands, quickly soldiers moving wounded onto horses and empty carts, weapons being collected, and perished men being covered. They had no time to collect them and bury them properly, they needed to move. Despite the pain, she helped where she could.

“We move now! Find a clearing to set up some tents, tend to the wounded!”

The group was quick to move, heading towards a new clearing to set up a small camp and try to recover. Ilyana had yet to say a word to Ivan, avoiding him as much as she could in fear she would snap. It felt like days but soon enough a makeshift camp was made. She ordered any men not injured to stand guard, surrounding the camp as well as positions hidden outside in case there was an ambush. Only a few tents were put up, mainly just for the injured. One of course out up for Ilyana and Ivan once more. That is where Ilyana secluded herself, inside their tent, sitting upon the bench. She had continued the rip on her dress that started, revealing her torso. Her stitches had pulled, her midsection a hideous, dark blue and purple cloud. Carefully she used a wet cloth, dabbing it carefully at the dried blood.

Ivan had always known how to fight with pain. Searing wounds, shattered bone, frostbitten nights- those were familiar companions. Predictable. Containable. But this... the ache twisting in his chest now, the dull pulse behind his temples as he glanced toward the closed tent flap for what felt like the hundredth time... that wasn’t pain he could mend with fire or steel. Frankly, he feared her silence.

He busied himself with the camp, barking orders to keep his mind from wandering. His thigh burned with every step, stitched tight by a trembling young medic who hadn’t dared meet his eye. His forehead throbbed where a piece of flying ice had split skin. One of the older soldiers insisted on stitching it up himself, muttering, “No sense in you bleeding over everything, Prince,” with a half-hearted smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. The man’s hands were steady. Ivan appreciated the silence between them.

He sat on a rock outside the tent when it was done, gripping a waterskin, watching the smoke from the battlefield curl into the night sky. His sword leaned beside him, having miraculously been retrieved, the leather on the hilt stained with dried blood. Wraith had long since been taken by a stablehand; Ivan hadn’t spoken a word to the boy, just handed him the reins and nodded.

Everything around him moved. Soldiers speaking in hushed tones, horses stamping, Diaval's wings briefly blotting out the moon. But inside, Ivan was still standing on that battlefield, watching Ilyana fall, seeing her blood in the snow, the surge of panic that had torn through him like fire.

And the way she had looked at him afterward -- like he was a stranger. A disappointment.

He waited until the rest of the camp had settled into a tense, wounded quiet. Then finally, unable to delay it any longer, he rose and entered the tent. The moment he stepped inside, the warmth of the enclosed space hit him, and so did the silence. Ilyana sat on the bench, her back to him, the fabric of her dress peeled back to reveal the havoc left by the battle. His breath caught.

It wasn’t just the fresh bruising, the deep purple spreading across her ribs, the raw gash at her shoulder. It was the scars. Dozens of them, pale and silvered with age, crisscrossed her back like a tapestry. Some were narrow and surgical. Others looked jagged, brutal, torn by blade or lash. They ran along her spine, her shoulders, even the curve of her ribs. There was no pattern to them. Only a story written in violence, in survival.

Ivan didn’t realize he was staring until his jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He turned sharply on his heel, his back to her, biting down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

He said nothing. What could he say? That he was sorry? That he didn’t know? That he never dreamed she carried that kind of history carved into her skin? He knew better than to ask. Knew better than to let the pity or the horror show on his face. She’d kill him for it, or worse, look at him like he was nothing but another weakness waiting to disappoint her.

Ivan rubbed the heel of his palm into his brow, causing the gash there to flare angrily. The only sound was the soft dabbing of a cloth against skin, the wet fabric catching with each breath she took. He shut his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to-” he stopped himself, jaw tightening. That wasn’t it. “No. I did. I made a choice. And it was the wrong one.”

The silence between them felt like a chasm. Like the edge of a blade. Ivan swallowed down the knot rising in his throat. The air inside the tent felt thick, heavy with unspoken things. His hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment, he wished she’d just yell at him. Curse him. Anything but this cold, deafening quiet. He turned slightly, just enough to catch her shadow moving across the tent floor behind him. He didn’t dare look further.

“I’ll sleep outside,” he said at last. His voice was steady, but quiet. “You can have the tent tonight.”

And before she could say a word -- if she ever would -- he ducked out, letting the tent flap fall shut behind him.

In that moment she no longer cared to hide anything, truly her mind elsewhere. Everything around her had grown quiet, as if she was able to turn everything off and just be in the moment. She no longer heard the men outside, the stomping of hooves, the whistling wind, there was nothing but silence. She was careful and meticulous with her work, maybe the thoughts in her mind helped to numb the pain as the needle and thread pushed and pulled through her skin. She had not noticed Ivan had entered until he began to speak, everything becoming loud once again. She kept her back to him still, finishing up the final stitch before wrapping a bandage around her again, pulling her dress sleeve back over to keep her modest.

Ilyana set everything down before lifting a hand to her face, letting out an exhausted sigh as she rubbed her cheek. His voice hurt to listen too, Ivan trying to apologize. She didn’t believe him, why should she? Everytime he tried and said he was wrong, it never felt like he truly meant it. Just like his mother said. Ilyana took a deep, painful breath before she stood, finally turning to him as he left for the outside.

Her brows furrowed, her chest tightened. She could not hold back anymore. After how today went, after how so much could have been avoided, she had reached her limit. She felt as if this was all just a waste of her time, giving so much for nothing in return. Ilyana finally called out after Ivan as his form slipped from the tent, her voice stern, as if a mother was calling after her child to scold, “Ivan!” She followed him outside, pushing through the canvas tent flap harshly. “Don’t just walk away” She said, following him out towards the middle of camp, stopping only when he did.

“When are you going to listen? I told you to wait, to wait for me, to follow my plan. But you didn't.” She began, her arms crossed over her chest. “You wanted my help with this war, yet you don't trust me! You still see me as an enemy, I know it, deep down you don’t want to trust me. Your men who despised me trust me more than you do!” She snapped, her arms moving now as she spoke. “This whole day could have been avoided, men would still be alive, you wouldn’t be hurt if you would have just listened!” Her voice was sharp, stern but also exhausted, hurt...worried.

“You could have died out there! One more second and that blade would have been in your back, dead in the snow” She said, a twist of pain and sadness fading over her expression as she pointed at him. Her eyes looked deep into his own, sadness, anger, worry, everything flickering like a raging flame in those deep blue orbs. Her gut twisted, anxiety taking hold once again as the thought of his slumped form in that snow flipped through her mind. The feeling she had as she watched the snow collapse around him, hearing his yell muffled by the white powder.

Ivan had barely made it a few strides from the tent before her voice calling his name pierced the night like a blade. The syllables were sharp, commanding – the kind of voice that could stop a charging horse in its tracks. His shoulders tensed, and for the briefest moment he considered not turning around. Walking farther, into the trees, into the dark. But of course, he didn’t. He couldn’t just ignore her. He turned as she pushed through the tent flap, fire in her eyes and fury in her step.

“Don’t just walk away.”

He stopped. The wind tugged at his cloak and tousled his blood-matted hair, but he said nothing as she advanced, stopping only a few feet away. The men nearby wisely looked away, some ducking their heads, pretending to busy themselves with packs or tending wounds. Even they could feel the charge in the air. Then she began.

“When are you going to listen? I told you to wait, to wait for me, to follow my plan. But you didn’t.”

The words were sharp and accusing, slicing through his composure. He felt them dig beneath his skin, settle into every cut and bruise like salt. But he held his tongue, at least at first.

“You wanted my help with this war, yet you don't trust me! You still see me as an enemy, I know it. Deep down you don’t want to trust me. Your men who despised me trust me more than you do!”

That one hit harder than he expected. And it wasn't true, but gods, it felt true in the way she said it. Her voice was rising, her frustration bleeding into the night air. He couldn’t help it then; his head snapped up, eyes flashing. In a quiet but loaded voice, he countered, “That's not fair.”

But she was still speaking, not letting him wedge a word in.

“This whole day could have been avoided, men would still be alive, you wouldn’t be hurt if you would have just listened!”

Her voice cracked slightly near the end, and he saw it – the undercurrent beneath the rage. Her words shook not from anger, but from knowing how close they’d come to losing everything. “You could have died out there! One more second and that blade would have been in your back, dead in the snow!”

The image slammed into his mind again: her hand grabbing his arm, that last second before the blade struck, the sickening feeling of being helpless. And that look in her eyes now – like she was still seeing it, again and again.

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He wanted to yell. He wanted to throw it all back at her, burn the ground between them with his own fury. But he didn’t; behind her fire, he saw the same thing he’d felt when he’d watched her crest that hill, bleeding and desperate, clawing through snow to reach him, and he had made the wrong move, after all. He exhaled sharply, ran a gloved hand through his hair, and let out a sound that wasn’t quite a word – more of a frustrated growl deep in his chest.

“I can’t follow a plan,” he huffed finally, “if I don’t know what the plan is! You disappeared all day, avoiding me as if I were sent to kill you. You didn’t say when you were leaving, or when you’d be back- hell, if you’d even be back at all! You act like you think I’m just supposed to sit there, wait like a good little soldier, and hope the mountain doesn’t eat you alive?”

He took a step closer, crossing his own arms to prevent them from flailing.

“I asked for your help, not for you to take everything on yourself. That’s not the deal. You act like we're just all so tiresome, like a master who takes over an apprentice's work out of exasperation over the former's naïveté. You said we were in this together, but every time it matters, you vanish. Into the shadows, your own head, Diaval’s damn wing span.”

He shook his head, voice lower now, more worn. “I don’t need a ghost; I've got plenty of those. I need a partner.”

The tiniest bit of his own quelled explosion simmered up again, and he indulged in an irked addition that he knew he would likely regret later. His eyes met hers, storm for storm, one a brilliant blue and the other a stony green. “If you want a blindly obedient, sunshine-and-rainbows, faith and trust and pixie dust lackey, you’re many, many years too late.”

“I’ve never walked blind into the dark. Not once. Not since-” Ivan stopped himself, biting his tongue. The words were there, trembling just behind his lips, but he didn’t speak them. She didn’t need to hear the story. Not now. Maybe not ever. He glanced away, voice hoarse with frustration and unspoken tales, and he abruptly shifted his sentence. “It doesn't matter. I know better than to run headlong into the unknown when the people walking beside me are the ones tying on the blindfold.”

There was another silence. The nearby soldiers had long since vacated the premises, though the prince figured it was better that way, even if it did direct all of her fury onto himself. Ivan took a breath, slower this time, trying to rein it in. “I have a general idea of what kind of power you carry, what kind of burden you live with. But gods, woman, I can’t stand here and let you take every wound like it’s your responsibility to bleed for all of us. You think I don’t trust you. You think I see you as an enemy. If that were true, I wouldn’t have followed you into this war. I wouldn’t have fought beside you. I wouldn’t have-” He stopped and exhaled. “-I wouldn’t have been terrified when you disappeared and didn't come back.”

His hand clenched at his side.

“I do trust you, as much as someone like me can trust another person,” he said at last, fierce and quiet. “But trust isn’t just earned once and then kept. It’s fed and grown and shared.”

His voice turned bitter again. “But you shut me out. Not just today. Every time I try to see you, you slam the door in my face, and I’m sick of it.”

He looked her full in the face again, now rambling away his ire. “You want me to trust you more, trust anyone more? Then give me something to trust. Talk to me.”

His breath steamed between them, curling in the cold. Then he added, “I’d rather fight beside someone who sees me as an equal, than follow someone who sees me as a liability.”

And there it was, the part that could have summarized his own tirade, but Ivan had never been good with personal words.