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Summary
"War's an ugly thing," you tell her once; the stars are thick in the sky, smell of summer heat fading yet, the torchlight and victory feast ongoing.
"How odd," she says. Her finger traces the back of your hand, light as the secret in her smile, hotter than any brand. "You never make it seem that way."
“I assure you, it is only the company,” you say. “You have a gift.”