Nothing here invites rest.
Rest implies safety and Teddy stopped believing in that years ago.
Everything here permits readiness.
A single lantern burns low on the table, its flame steady, untroubled by draft or movement. He prefers it that way. Predictable light. Predictable shadow. No flicker to misread as motion.
His armor rests open across his thighs, leather straps loosened but not removed. He does not fully disarm unless sleep forces him to—and sleep has not forced anything in a long time.
His thumb presses unconsciously to the center of his chest, where body-warmed metal answers him there. Smooth. Familiar. Constant.
The chain lies hidden beneath his tunic, the ring threaded onto it resting flat against his sternum, precisely where the breastplate shields the heart. The position is not sentimental. It is structural. If he wears memory, he wears it where it cannot be struck without consequence.
He rubs the edge of the band between his fingers, feeling the shallow groove worn into its surface by years of unconscious touch.
Tali never removed hers when she worked. She said metal carried warmth longer than flesh did. Said it remembered contact. Said that meant something.
He does not know if metal remembers.
Buthedoes.
His hand drops.
Stillness settles again—dense, heavy, unyielding.
Outside, distant sounds drift through limestone corridors—muted footfalls, the low murmur of untrained soldiers rotating watch, the chaotic muffle of training drills taking place. His army preparing. Though not well. Disorderly. Undisciplined.
He should be with them.
He should fix that.
Instead, he sits.
Thinking.Always thinking.
A tactical error in any other arena. Thinking too long gets soldiers killed. Hesitation creates openings. He knows that better than most.
Frustration climbs up from his gut.
His gaze fixes on the far wall, but he sees nothing in the room. He sees formations. Angles of approach. Defensive lines. The slow shaping of raw bodies into coordinated force. Thousands of lives depending on timing, discipline, restraint.
He understands war. War has rules.
Advance. Hold. Adapt. Strike. Surge. Survive.
Simple.
Human hearts are not.
Most especially his own.
He’d rather face a battlefield than whatever the fuck this is.
His jaw tightens.
Seren’s face rises unbidden—not soft, not uncertain, not the girl who first arrived wide-eyed and searching for belonging.
She’s sharper now. Harder. But no less beautiful. No less brilliant.
