The days that followed were peaceful, filled with the warmth of simple joys. Elya and Naia settled into a life that was theirs alone, mornings spent in lazy embraces, afternoons filled with work and laughter, evenings wrapped in each other’s presence. The villagers who had heard of Callen’s downfall offered their quiet support, a silent but steadfast acknowledgment of Elya’s place among them. Life returned to normal, or at least, a version of it.

  But peace, as always, was fleeting.

  The morning was cool as Elya and Naia finished their bath together. Steam clung to their skin as they lingered, Naia’s fingers tracing lazy patterns along Elya’s chest and other sensual places. "You’re thinking too much again," Naia murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

  Elya huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You always say that."

  "Because it’s always true," Naia teased, her smile soft and knowing.

  Elya turned in the water, brushing a damp lock of hair from Naia’s face, ready to lose herself in this moment a little longer, when the sharp knock at the door shattered the tranquility.

  Elya stood abruptly, water cascading down her body as Naia leaned back, letting her admire the sight for just a breath before Elya reached for a towel. "I’ll get it."

  "You should always answer the door naked," Naia teased, grinning as she dried herself. "Might scare away unwanted guests."

  Elya shot her a look but couldn’t suppress a smirk as she wrapped herself in a robe and strode to the door. The moment she pulled it open, the smile fell from her face.

  Kingdom soldiers, five of them. The lead soldier, clad in the standard royal armor, held out a parchment, his expression unreadable. "By order of the King, you are hereby conscripted into service."

  Elya’s blood ran cold. Naia was beside her in an instant, tension radiating from her body. "Conscripted? For what?"

  The soldier didn’t even glance at her. "That is not for you to question. The decree is clear."

  Elya’s mind raced. It had to be Callen. He must have twisted the truth. Perhaps he claimed she assaulted a noble’s son. Or worse, that she was a rogue mage terrorizing civilians. Whatever the lie was, the weight of the king’s decree left no room for argument.

  The village was stirring now, eyes peering from windows and doorways. She could hear murmurs of discontent, a rising unease among those who had come to accept her as one of their own. "She’s done nothing wrong," an older woman called from the crowd.

  A younger man crossed his arms. "You think we’ll let you just take her?"

  The soldiers stood firm, unmoved by the words of the villagers. "Stand aside," the lead soldier commanded. "Do not interfere."

  Naia’s hand found Elya’s, squeezing tight. "You don’t have to go."

  But Elya knew better. If she resisted, they would not leave without a fight. She would not let blood be spilled on her behalf. Not here. Not in the place that had finally begun to feel like home.

  She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin. "I will come with you. But I will dress first."

  "You have five minutes," the soldier said, his tone clipped.

  One of the men behind him scoffed. "Not sure why it matters. A rogue mage isn’t worth dignity."

  The crowd bristled, but before any of them could speak, Elya’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "I will not be paraded through my own home like a criminal. I will dress, and you will wait." For a moment, no one moved. Then, begrudgingly, the lead soldier nodded. "Five minutes."

  Elya turned, her grip on Naia’s hand lingering for just a moment before she slipped back inside. The weight of what was happening settled heavily on her shoulders, but she would not break. She had fought for everything she had ever had, and she would not let herself become a tool of the kingdom.

  She would go. But they would regret taking her.

  Naia clutched Elya's hand, her grip desperate, her voice almost pleading. "You don’t have to go. We can fight this. The villagers will stand with you."

  Elya shook her head, her throat tight with emotion. "And that’s exactly why I have to go. If I resist, if I stay, they will strike against this place, against the people who stood beside me. I won’t be the reason they suffer."

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  Naia's eyes burned with frustration, but she understood. Elya could see it in the way her fingers clenched and released, her body tense with the weight of helplessness.

  "I will take nothing except the clothes on my back," Elya continued, her voice firm, though her heart ached. "I will not let them strip me of my dignity, no matter what lies they tell. But I promise you this, Naia, this is not the end."

  Naia exhaled sharply, biting her lip as if holding back words that might break them both. Finally, she nodded. "Then I will wait. I will find a way to bring you back."

  Elya allowed herself one last moment, brushing her knuckles against Naia’s cheek. "I know you will." Then she turned, straightened her shoulders, and walked toward her fate.

  Elya walked between the soldiers, her wrists bound in front of her, though the restraints were more for show than necessity. She could break free if she wanted to. The thought lingered at the edge of her mind, tempting, but she held it at bay. Now was not the time.

  The five soldiers flanked her, their grips firm on their weapons, their postures tense. They knew they weren’t welcome here, knew that every step they took deeper into the village was another step toward hostility. The murmurs of discontent had followed them since they left her home, but now, those murmurs were swelling into shouts.

  "Let her go!"

  "She’s one of us! You can’t take her!"

  Elya’s stomach twisted as she glanced around, taking in the growing crowd of villagers. They had come out in force, men and women, young and old, all of them watching, their faces hard with anger and defiance. More and more of them pressed in, moving between the narrow streets, tightening the path.

  The lead soldier turned, his voice sharp with warning. "Step aside. This is the king’s decree. Interfering is treason."

  "Treason?" an elderly woman scoffed. "And what’s taking our healer, our protector, against her will? Justice?"

  The tension in the air thickened. The soldiers were shifting now, adjusting their stances, hands tightening on hilts. Elya could feel it, the unease, the uncertainty. Fear was creeping in, and frightened men with weapons were dangerous.

  She stepped forward before it could snap. "Enough!" Her voice rang out, commanding and firm, cutting through the rising storm of voices. The villagers turned to her, but so did the soldiers, grateful for the reprieve.

  Elya met the gaze of the crowd, her heart aching at their devotion. "I have to go," she said, her voice even, strong. "This is bigger than just me. If we fight them, the king will send more. We will all suffer. I won’t be the cause of that."

  "But…"

  She shook her head. "No. I will go. But I need to know why."

  She turned her gaze to the lead soldier, holding his stare. "You’re taking me to the front, aren’t you? Why? What lie did Callen spin?"

  The man hesitated. He had been ordered to retrieve her, not to answer questions. But something in Elya’s unwavering gaze compelled him to speak. "The king believes you are dangerous," he admitted finally. "Callen reported that you assaulted a noble and used illegal magic on him."

  A bitter laugh escaped Elya’s lips. "Illegal magic? And what, pray tell, makes it illegal? That it worked?"

  "It isn’t for me to question," the soldier said stiffly. "Our orders are to bring you to the warfront. That is all."

  Elya exhaled slowly, then turned back to her people. "Stand down," she urged. "I will return."

  The villagers hesitated, reluctant, but slowly, they began to pull back. The soldiers, wary and still uneasy, moved quickly to push forward, eager to escape before the crowd could change its mind.

  As they marched, Elya let the truth settle in her chest. She had been right, Callen had twisted events, turned her into something dangerous in the eyes of the kingdom. And now, she was being sent to war.

  But she was not broken. Not yet.

  And if they thought they could control her, they were wrong.

  As she was placed into the carriage that would take her to the front, Elya scanned the crowd. Naia was there, supporting her from a distance. She would miss her, but she would be back. She was certain of it.

  The carriage lurched forward, and the familiar sights of the town faded behind her. The road was rough, jostling the passengers as they moved deeper into war-torn territory. The air inside was thick with unease, the soldiers seated around her shifting uncomfortably. No one spoke to her at first. Some ignored her entirely, while others regarded her with suspicion, as if questioning why a mere healer was being sent to the front lines alongside them.

  The journey took several days, marked by sleepless nights and the distant echoes of battle carried on the wind. The soldiers around her were hardened, their expressions carved from stone, yet she sensed the exhaustion beneath their rigid exteriors.

  At first, they kept their distance. Elya was an outsider, unproven. They talked among themselves, voices hushed as they shared grim tales of past battles, of comrades who had fallen, of victories that felt hollow. She listened, absorbing every word, every quiet moment of pain hidden behind their stories.

  It was on the third night that one of them finally spoke to her. A grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek asked, "Have you ever seen a battlefield, healer?" She shook her head. He scoffed but not unkindly. "Then you’ll learn soon enough."

  The others gradually opened up. Some were still wary, but a few began to accept her presence. She was not a soldier, but she was here, facing the same uncertain fate they were. In the quiet moments between travel and rest, she started to understand them, not just as warriors, but as people who carried the weight of war with them, even in silence.

  The carriage rocked violently as it navigated the deep ruts carved into the war-beaten road. The air reeked of damp earth, unwashed bodies, and something more ominous, blood. Elya sat rigid, her hands folded in her lap, gripping the worn leather of her gloves. She had spent days preparing herself for this moment, but nothing could have braced her for the raw reality of the battlefield.

  As the carriage rolled to a halt, the shouting of officers and the distant clash of steel filled the air. A young soldier, barely older than herself, wrenched open the door. His face was pale beneath the streaks of dirt, his uniform hastily mended, his eyes hollow from too many sleepless nights.