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"You always liked the smell of ink better than horses," Eirika says, her voice breaking into a weak, airy laugh. She reaches over the little wooden crate between them, her fingers almost touching the cuff of his sleeve.
"I remember finding you asleep in the library, right on top of those old books. You looked so tiny under all those blankets."
Saleh sits still, his back straight under his robes. The air between them feels oddly heavy with the smell of ozone and her sheer exhaustion. As a sage from Caer Pelyn, he's used to sensing spiritual energy; right now, the princess's aura is fractured, a messy storm of sadness and sleeplessness.
But what's worse than the storm itself is what it's turning into.
"Eirika," Saleh says, keeping his voice even, quiet, and stripped of the warmth she seems so desperate for. "The books I study are for the mountain elders. They're not the history books about Magvel you read in the capital."
"But you remember the garden, right?" She leans in, her shoulders sagging as if her armor is finally too heavy to bear. A strained, desperate smile spreads across her face. "The white flowers? You told me you'd figure out how to make them bloom in winter. You said magic could fix anything if we just learned enough."
A cold shiver runs down Saleh's neck. She's not talking to him. She's talking to the monster wearing her childhood friend's face. She's searching for the kind prince of Grado in a loner from the northern mountains. For a moment, anger flares up in him—a quiet, burning frustration at being used as an empty stand-in for a traitor, a boy who chose darkness and ripped the continent apart. He wants to stand up, shake her, and make her see the gray in his hair and the rough lines of a man who has spent decades alone.
I'm Saleh, he wants to say. I protect the Great Dragon. I'm not your lost friend.
"The flowers," Eirika whispers, her fingers finally touching the edge of his sleeve. Her hand shakes, burning with a feverish warmth. "Tell me you still have the seeds. Please. Just say it."
As the campfire flickers in the dark, its flames cast strange shadows, making Saleh's deep violet hair look like a softer, lighter purple. For a brief moment, Eirika's tired eyes play tricks on her. She sees the exact light purple color of Lyon's hair, almost seeing the two men blend into one shape. But when Saleh moves his head, the strong firelight catches his unruly curls—so unlike Lyon's fine, smooth hair. The illusion breaks right away, forcing her to realize the man in front of her is a stern warrior, not her childhood friend.
Saleh closes his mouth, the hard truth stuck in his throat. Tomorrow, at sunrise, they attack the palace. Tomorrow, she must lead knights into a terrible fight. If he breaks this illusion for her now, the fragile thing holding her together will fall apart. She'll go into battle like a ghost.
He forces himself to relax, turning his palms up in a gesture that feels entirely foreign to him. He softens his voice, lowering it to copy the unsure, bookish tone of a boy he never knew.
"The seeds are safe, Eirika," Saleh lies, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "The frost hasn't hurt them. We just need to wait for the storm to pass."
Eirika lets out a long, shaky sigh, the tension leaving her so fast she almost collapses against the crate. She rests her forehead on the wood, giving in to the phantom comfort of a dead man's voice. Saleh stays frozen, trapped in the dark role he chose, watching a princess who is far away, dreaming of a kingdom that no longer exists.
The camp is packed up almost silently, the rising sun casting long, sharp shadows on the dirt. She stands by her horse, pulling the saddle strap tight with steady, powerful tugs. Her movements are too exact, far too deliberate.
Saleh walks past her to join the vanguard, his robes brushing the tall grass. He doesn't stop, nor does he look at her. His cold silence now is a sharp contrast to the boyish warmth he feigned last night. It's the firm distance of a man who regrets the bargain he made.
She freezes, her hand lingering on the leather strap.
The illusion from last night vanishes in the bright daylight. The truth hits her not gradually, but like glass violently shattering. The man who spoke to her about winter flowers was a ghost of her own making. The man walking away from her now is a stranger from the peaks, a warrior carrying the weight of an ancient tribe, completely detached from the royal life she grew up with.
She hands the reins to a nearby soldier and follows Saleh, her armored boots crunching loudly on the frozen ground.
"Sage Saleh," she calls out.
Saleh stops but doesn't turn right away. When he finally faces her, his expression is carved from stone. There's no warmth, no sympathy, and absolutely no trace of the bookish boy from Grado.
"Princess," Saleh says, his voice flat and deep. "The vanguard is ready to march."
"Last night," Eirika starts, her posture stiffening as she forces herself to look at the truth. "I spoke to you about a promise. I spoke to you as if you were the prince of Grado."
"I know," Saleh replies, completely detached. "You needed comfort to survive the night before battle. I provided the words required to keep our commander whole."
His clinical words make Eirika wince. They drag her back to reality—the suffocating truth she's been trying to escape since the war began.
"I was betrothed to him, Saleh," she says, a fierce, desperate whisper, hidden from the soldiers passing by. "Before the stones shattered, before the monsters came. My father and King Vigarde had agreed. I was supposed to be Lyon's bride. My entire future was predicated on his gentleness."
Saleh doesn't blink. "The prince you were promised to is dead, Eirika. The thing wearing his flesh wants to hollow out this continent. Grieving a pact with a ghost will not win the day."
His harsh words hang in the biting morning air. Eirika looks at him—truly looking for the first time without the fog of grief.
The sharp, weathered lines around his mouth from years of mountain wind are undeniable. The silver ornaments of Caer Pelyn pinned to his shoulders catch the light, marking him as part of a culture that cares nothing for lowland crowns or royal weddings. Lyon was a boy who shrank from the world; Saleh is a man who stands unyielding against it.
A strange clarity washes over her, replacing her frantic sorrow with a cold, solid respect. The comfort of Lyon’s memory was a parasite, eating away at her resolve. Saleh’s cruelty now is a bitter tonic, but it is real. It belongs to the present.
"You're right," Eirika says, shedding the last remnants of the grieving princess. She steps closer, forcing him to acknowledge her not just as royalty, but as his commander. "He's gone. And I don't need a ghost to lead these men."
Saleh's brow twitches slightly, the first crack of genuine surprise on his stoic face.
"I'm not asking for your comfort anymore, Sage," Eirika continues, her voice ringing clear and resonant. "I'm asking for your wind magic. I'm asking for your counsel. I see exactly who you are now, Saleh. Do not play a part for me again."
Saleh remains silent for a long moment, measuring the sharp focus in her posture. The air between them shifts from pity to a grim partnership of equals. He bows his head—a true gesture of respect for the woman, not just the title.
"As you wish, Princess," Saleh says.
Eirika takes one step forward, moving into his personal space.
She puts her arm out, pressing her gloved hand flat against his chest, right above his heart. She pushes down firmly, purposefully leaning into him to feel if the man in front of her is real.
Saleh plants his boots into the frozen dirt, bracing against the weight of her plate armor. His stance remains unyielding, and beneath her leather and iron, his heart beats a fast, strong rhythm. He is alive. He is entirely real.
"A ghost has no blood, Sage," Eirika says, her voice low and sharp. "And a ghost stays in the past."
"Memories do the same," Saleh replies, staying perfectly still beneath her touch. "The weight you feel is just mine. I am here, Eirika."
Right then, the emerald-green magic woven into his tribal robes flares to life. Bright, crackling sparks burst from the fabric, climbing up her gauntlets like wild, glowing vines. The ancient energy wraps around her forearms, rapidly melting the morning frost and sending a sudden, vital warmth through the cold iron of her armor.
The light illuminates the sharp angles of his face and the newfound focus in hers, locking them in a private, glowing circle in the middle of the bustling camp.
She slowly pulls her hand away, the emerald sparks scattering like dying embers. The warmth lingers, leaving a steady, phantom thrumming in her fingers.
"Keep that fire ready," Eirika says, turning to mount her horse. "We have a continent to save."