Polis felt different.
Not just politically—though the ripples of Queen Nia's death spread fast and wide—but in a deeper, subtler way. The streets buzzed with new rumor. The Coalition simmered with unease and reshuffling allegiances. And beneath it all, Kira felt a shift she couldn't name. As though some invisible line had moved, and everything was tilting toward something more personal.
Kira stood on the southern parapets that evening, watching as the last light faded over the mountain ridges. She leaned against the stone wall, one hand resting on the hilt of her sheathed dagger, the other cupped loosely around a steaming wooden cup. Pine needle tea. Bitter as hell. She drank it anyway.
"Tell me something true."
Lexa's voice came from behind, quiet, close. Kira didn't turn immediately. She felt Lexa's presence settle beside her, calm and steady, like a heartbeat brushing against hers.
Kira blew across the surface of the tea. "Is that how we're starting tonight? No greeting, no preamble?"
Lexa glanced sidelong at her. "We've moved past pleasantries."
Kira smirked but didn't disagree. "Something true, huh?"
She let the silence stretch, the tension between them humming like a tightrope.
"I don't like feeling watched," Kira said finally. "And I know most of your spies have started following me again."
Lexa didn't flinch. "They watch everyone. After Nia's death, trust is currency."
"I'm not asking for blind trust," Kira said, sipping the tea. "But I'd rather earn it in person than through whispers in shadowed corners."
Lexa was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'll recall them. Except for the one on Roan. He requested it."
Kira huffed a soft laugh. "Fair."
A pause. The wind tugged at Lexa's hair, sending a few strands across her face. She brushed them aside absently.
"My turn," Kira said. "Tell me something true."
Lexa's gaze drifted outward. "I used to sneak away when I was twelve. Out of Polis. Out into the forest alone. No guards, no lectures. I told my trainers it was for survival training. Really, I just wanted to see what silence felt like when it wasn't imposed."
Kira watched her. "And did you find it?"
Lexa nodded. "For a while. Until the day I came across a mother wolf teaching her pups to hunt. She let me watch. Didn't attack. I think she knew I didn't belong to the same kind of danger."
"That's beautiful," Kira said quietly.
"It was."
They stood in companionable stillness. The city below moved in slow spirals—light from torches swaying like fireflies, the scent of hearth smoke rising from distant rooftops.
After a while, Lexa spoke again. "Come with me."
Kira raised a brow. "Now?"
"There's something I want to show you."
Lexa led her down winding stairwells and across quieter sections of the tower—less populated, more lived-in. Not the stone-choked ceremonial corridors, but warm hallways filled with the scent of dried herbs, the faint sound of old music played on stringed instruments. They passed no guards. No attendants. Only a handful of quiet glances from passing advisors who said nothing.
Finally, they reached a small wooden door at the far end of a hallway. Lexa opened it without ceremony and stepped inside. Kira followed.
The room beyond was small, circular, and softly lit with candles set into wall sconces. A fire crackled in a low stone hearth. There was no throne. No weapons. Only bookshelves, a woven rug, and a table set for two—bowls of food still steaming.
Kira looked around slowly. "This isn't what I expected."
"It's not meant for others," Lexa said simply. "This is mine."
Her private retreat. The Commander's refuge from the world.
Kira looked at her, eyebrows raised.
"You brought me here."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Lexa stepped closer, not touching her, but near enough for her scent—smoke and leather and faint cedar—to brush against Kira's senses.
"Because I wanted to," Lexa said.
Not a demand. Not a command. Just truth, soft and clear.
Kira felt her pulse tick upward.
They sat at the table, side by side, bowls between them. The food was simple—stewed roots, herbs, roasted venison. Kira tasted it, surprised by the subtle spices. It was grounding. Not ceremonial. Not performative.
"This is good," she said.
"I make it myself when I can."
Kira blinked. "You cook?"
Lexa allowed a rare smile. "Not everything needs to be war."
There was a moment of silence before they both chuckled, quietly. Something loosened in the air between them. Some boundary, long unspoken, slipped a little further down.
As they ate, their conversation danced between soft memory and subtle glances.
Lexa told her about Anya teaching her how to braid hair under pressure, how she'd once broken her arm in training and refused pain medicine just to prove she could. Kira told her about learning to disarm bombs with nerves of steel, about rescuing someone once by bluffing her way through a language she barely knew.
The intimacy wasn't in what they said—but how they shared it.
The walls between them weren't crashing down. They were being dismantled slowly, brick by cautious brick.
When they finished eating, Lexa poured a second round of pine-berry wine into carved wooden cups.
"To survival," Kira said, raising her glass.
Lexa touched hers lightly to it. "To something more."
Their eyes met over the rim. That silence returned. Not absence, but electricity.
Lexa rose, and Kira followed her toward the hearth.
There, in the gentle firelight, they stood close—closer than before. Lexa reached out, slowly, fingers brushing Kira's wrist. She didn't take her hand—just touched it, lightly.
Kira didn't move away.
Lexa leaned in, her voice barely a breath. "If I were to kiss you now... would you stop me?"
Kira's eyes searched hers. "No. But you should know—this won't be casual."
Lexa nodded. "Neither will I."
Then they closed the distance.
The kiss was soft. Measured. Not explosive, not rushed. But layered with promise. A spark beneath the skin. It didn't need to be more than that. Not yet.
When they broke apart, Lexa rested her forehead against Kira's.
They stayed like that, breathing together, hearts steadying against one another.
Kira smiled. "You're surprisingly good at slow."
Lexa exhaled a soft laugh. "You make it easier than I expected."
Later that night, Kira returned to her quarters, the scent of pine-berry wine still clinging to her sleeves. She didn't sleep right away.
She lay beneath the furs, staring at the stone ceiling, heart thrumming not from adrenaline, but something gentler.
Something more dangerous, in its own way.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. The Coalition remained fragile. War was still a breath away. Enemies watched. Secrets brewed.
But tonight, for the first time in this brutal, bloodstained world—she wasn't alone.
Not truly.
SUPPORT:
Patreon: patreon.com/KyJo_—YouTube Gaming: youtube.com/@KyJoGaming—Discord: discord.gg/v2uSTygMgb