Gale watched her for a moment, his mind still spinning from the strange turn of their conversation. Jillian’s laugh had been sharp, dry—just like him. It didn’t surprise him, but it made something in his chest tighten. He should’ve expected it, though. She had a way of seeing through people, like she was always looking for cracks in their armor, even if she didn't always show it.

He turned away, the weight of the flask still in his hand. The liquid inside wasn’t going to erase the unease settling in his gut. Maybe a bit of the night’s brandy would numb it, but it wasn’t the drink he needed right now—it was answers, or at least, a distraction from the mess he had tangled himself in. And Jillian was as good at being a distraction as anyone could be.

Her laugh echoed in his mind as he made his way back to his tent, each step deliberate but heavy. That sound, bitter yet familiar, followed him. There were too many things left unsaid, too many questions hanging between them. He didn't know what she was really thinking. But then again, did it even matter? She’d made her position clear—she wasn’t here to make friends. And he wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing or a curse.

Inside his tent, the world felt smaller, confined by canvas and shadows. He didn’t sit down immediately, instead leaning against the rough wall, staring at nothing. The air was thick with the smell of earth, damp and musty from the rain earlier. His mind was still buzzing with thoughts of the mission, of what they were really doing out here—what they were really running from. And why, despite it all, it was Jillian who seemed to be lingering at the edge of his thoughts now.

Gale stood there for what felt like ages, the dim light flickering in the corner of the tent, casting long, uneven shadows across the worn canvas. His fingers gripped the flask tighter, his knuckles going white. It wasn’t the alcohol he needed; it was something else. Something he couldn’t reach, couldn’t put into words.

The tension in his chest grew heavier, the weight of all the things he hadn’t said pressing down like an anchor. Every detail of their conversation replayed in his mind—the dry laugh Jillian had given, the sharpness of it, the way it hung in the air between them. She had seen something. Something he didn’t even know how to name, let alone explain. Maybe that was why it stuck with him, that bitter little sound, because it had echoed back parts of him he had buried so deep he’d nearly forgotten they were there.

He looked around the tent, his eyes skimming over the cramped space. There were no comforts here. No distractions. Just the rough edges of his reality: the cot, the canvas walls, the half-empty crates of rations stacked against the far side. And the cold. Always the cold.

His thoughts wandered to the past. To what he had left behind. The ghosts of choices made long ago. Sometimes, he wondered if this whole mess, this endless wandering, wasn’t just a way to outrun all of it. The guilt. The regret. The fear that if he ever stopped moving, even for a second, it would all come crashing down.

But then there were moments like this. Quiet. Alone. When the past found its way in, uninvited, and took root in the present.

He took a slow breath, his eyes falling to the flask in his hand. Another pull wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just a momentary numbness. Just enough to push everything back for a while longer. But even as he raised the flask to his lips, he felt the weight of it in his hands. A brief thought crossed his mind—What am I doing?

The flask lowered. He set it on the small wooden crate beside him with more force than was necessary. His fingers lingered on the metal for a moment longer than they should have, as if he were waiting for it to make the decision for him. But it didn’t. And neither did he.

Instead, Gale let out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair. His reflection in the canvas was fragmented, distorted by the flickering light, but it was his face. His eyes. And in them, he saw something he didn’t recognize. A stranger, perhaps. Someone who’d lost his way, or worse, someone who’d stopped caring about ever finding it again.

He moved to the cot, though he wasn’t tired. He had no intention of sleeping—not with all the noise in his head. But he lay down anyway, staring at the ceiling of the tent, his thoughts spiraling again. Each one pulling him deeper. Deeper into places he’d sworn he’d left behind. And every time he tried to push them away, they came rushing back faster.

The sound of rain began again, soft at first, like a whisper against the earth. It was a familiar sound. A comforting one. But not tonight. Tonight, it only added to the ache in his chest, like the world was closing in on him, inch by inch.

He turned his head, staring out through the narrow flap of the tent into the darkness beyond. The faint glow of the campfire cast fleeting shadows on the edge of the trees. Jillian’s laugh, sharp and dry, echoed again, reverberating through his thoughts.

He had tried to hide it, tried to bury it under the weight of his responsibilities. But even here, alone, with the world on the brink of chaos, the truth was still there. Looming. Waiting.

He closed his eyes. He had thought he could outrun it. Thought he could leave it all behind. But the thing about running—about trying to outrun your own demons—is that they don’t stay behind. They keep pace. They follow, relentless, no matter how fast you go.

And there was no place far enough to escape from the things he had done.

It had been months since Jillian had left the palace. She stormed out on her parents without a second thought, left without so much as a goodbye.

"You'll marry him no matter whether you like it or not. Your life is not yours to decide because you bear the weight of the crown. Quit being selfish. Suck it up." That summed up the things that her father had told her after she'd insisted that she didn't want to marry a stranger. It was a nicer way to put the argument, but still. The things she had said were much crueler, and in truth she didn't like to think about it. She didn't regret what she said, she only regretted the way that she said it.

Jillian remembered leaving as if it was yesterday. Evading her guards at every turn. Nearly knocking out a poor stable boy when he tried to alert said guards. She remembered racing down that dry dirt road in the dead of night on horse back, the cold wind biting at her face. The dark skies and the falling- Rain. It was raining...

Jillian jolted back to reality, a fat rain drop rolled off the tip of her nose and onto her pants. She peered up, the tree she sat beneath blocking the majority of the water fall aside from a drop here and there.

She stood from her spot as the rain grew a little harder, threatening to dispel the fire if it continued. Jillian stood in the rain, still staring up at the sky. Well, her eyes were closed, but she could imagine those stars twinkling above her like a billion diamonds. The cold water hitting her face should have been refreshing, but it was cold and sharp, stinging against what was once warm skin.

Jillian didn't mind, though. It reminded her why she was out there in the elements. Reminded her that her life was her own and no one could take that from her. Thunder boomed around them and lightening soon crackled in the far distant sky, but still the woman didn't move out of the rain. Cold be damned, she would remain until she didn't feel an ounce of guilt or shame for running away.

She likely looked insane to the men, who had all seemed to fall into their tents after Gale had went into his own, but she didn't care what they thought. She merely let the rain pelt her, drench her hair and roll down her face and neck like little waterfalls. Life would be fine, she just had to continue as she was. Yeah...

Gale paused, the flask in his hand trembling slightly as his gaze flickered back to the amber liquid swirling inside. For a moment, everything inside him screamed to put it down, to walk away from the emptiness it promised. He was so damn tired—of the ghosts, the regret, the endless noise in his mind. He couldn’t run from them. Not anymore. Not for a while now.

But the idea of numbing it all for just a second, of making everything blur into a haze for a while, felt too tempting to resist. The bitter taste, the burn of it sliding down his throat—it was a familiar kind of comfort. One that hadn’t let him down yet, not fully. Maybe it wouldn’t solve anything, but it could help him forget, even if it was only for a moment.

His fingers tightened around the flask, and his thoughts began to spiral faster, the ache in his chest growing tighter. What am I doing?

He couldn’t answer that. Not really. The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t face the storm inside him right now. Not in the silence of this tent. Not in the stillness of his own mind.

With a sharp breath, Gale uncorked the flask and lifted it to his lips. His eyes closed, a fleeting sense of relief already beginning to settle in as the warmth spread through him. The first sip was slow, deliberate. The burn spread across his tongue, down his throat, and settled in his chest, comforting and cold at the same time.

He swallowed.

It didn’t stop the thoughts. Didn’t push back the guilt or the ghosts that lingered in his bones, but it quieted them, just enough to let him breathe. Another drink. Another.

The world around him seemed to blur as the liquid hit his bloodstream, the edges softening, the voices in his head growing distant. His muscles loosened, the tension easing from his shoulders, and for the briefest of moments, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—peace. A shallow, fleeting peace, but peace nonetheless.

He leaned back against the cot, the flask still in his hand, his fingers loose but holding on. The sharpness of Jillian’s laughter still echoed in his mind, but it didn’t sting as much anymore. It was just another sound now, a part of the storm in his head. He couldn’t shut it out, couldn’t stop the memory from replaying, but he could push it down, just for now. Just until the next wave came.

The rain outside grew heavier, the steady rhythm a companion to the muted throb in his chest. He closed his eyes and took another drink, letting the alcohol burn through the haze in his mind, letting it numb the ache that had never quite gone away.

And when he opened his eyes again, the world was still there, waiting for him. But for now, at least, it felt a little easier to breathe.

He lay back on the cot, the flask now half-empty, the weight of it a dull presence beside him. There was no escaping the past, no outrunning the things he had done. But tonight, he didn’t have to face them head-on. Not yet.

The sound of the rain, the steady pulse of it against the canvas, was all that filled the space now. The dark corners of the tent were deeper than before, the shadows stretching and shifting in the dim light.

For now, that was enough.