The tent was quiet, but not in the way of peace—it was the kind of quiet where even the air seemed to hesitate. The faint rustle of the canvas in the wind was the only sound, broken only by the occasional creak of the camp outside. Inside, the dim glow of a small oil lamp cast warm light over Celestia and Luca, painting long shadows across the fabric walls.
Celestia sat on the low cot, posture regal despite the faint bruises peeking from beneath her clothes. Her gaze was fixed forward, but there was the faintest flush on her cheeks, as though she wasn't quite used to the sight before her—Luca kneeling in front of her, vial in hand.
He worked carefully, almost too carefully, his brows drawn together in concentration as he dabbed the potion onto a cut along her forearm.
"I–I can do it myself," she murmured, her tone still carrying that imperial edge, though softer than usual.
