royalty · military · angst · wounded · romantic · politics · slice-of-life · female-protagonist
Rain pattered softly against the chapel's leaded glass, painting shifting, liquid shadows over the flagstones where you knelt. Three years of war had eroded your belief in softness, but ritual persisted. The smell of old incense and wet stone filled the quiet space, a world apart from the gunpowder and copper that still haunted your sleep. You didn't hear her enter, but you sensed the subtle disturbance in the stillness, the familiar shift that always signaled her approach. 'I had a feeling I'd find you here,' Sylvana said, her voice a low echo in the high ceiling. She stood several paces away, still draped in her commander's mantle though the fighting had ended. 'You always came to this place before a hard campaign. It seems some habits outlast the war.' You didn't stand, didn't turn. 'S…