A week. Seven days to write a poem so good it would stop the most cynical woman in the Legion from tossing him off the battlements, but not so good that she'd immediately fall in love and trigger Astra's already terrifying jealousy.
"Impossible," Vael muttered, clutching his journal.
His life had become an Olympic sport in Avoiding Affection. Astra was completely unhinged. She'd decided he needed more "Warrior nutrients" and spent the afternoons trying to feed him rations—tough, dried meat that tasted like a leather sandal—with her own massive, armored hand.
"Open up, Consort," Astra would command, holding a chunk of jerky. "You need the protein for your delicate brain. I cannot have my bard dying from a lack of iron."
Vael would flinch. "I'm fine, Captain. Really. I had a carrot this morning."
"Nonsense! That carrot lacked aggression! Eat the meat!"
The soldiers just watched, wide-eyed, placing bets on whether the little poet would actually chew the jerky or choke on it. Vael was exhausted. He was living under a permanent, suffocating blanket of love and armor.
He had to get this poem right. Lyra was his only way back to normalcy—or at least, less abnormality.
He spent the next few nights studying Lyra from a distance (while Astra was mercifully asleep). Lyra didn't talk much. She barked orders. She didn't laugh. She scoffed. She moved with a ruthless efficiency that screamed one thing: Control.
Her truth isn't that she's sad, Vael realized, scribbling furiously in the dark. It's that she's terrified of not being in control. She thinks discipline is the only thing standing between her and destruction, like her old man.
The poem had to acknowledge that discipline was necessary, but show that it was slowly killing her from the inside. A punch to the soul, but without the kiss at the end.
The final night, as Astra's thunderous snoring rattled the supply closet door, a soft tap-tap came from the small, high window.
Vael looked up. Lyra was perched on the narrow ledge outside, somehow balanced perfectly in her boots, like a black-haired, angry gargoyle.
"Time's up, poet," she hissed, dropping silently onto the floor, making Vael jump a foot in the air. "I'm tired of watching my Captain make a fool of herself. Give me the truth about my soul. Make it count."
Lyra stood there, arms crossed, two shortswords sharp and visible behind her. No threats this time, just cold, ruthless expectation.
Vael didn't stutter. His terror was still there, a shaky knot in his stomach, but the Divine Flow was stronger. He looked her straight in the eye—those cynical, sharp eyes that never showed a flicker of weakness.
"You won't like it, Vice-Captain," Vael warned her. "It's not about glory. It's about cost."
"I deal in cost," Lyra retorted. "Speak."
Vael let the words out, not just speaking, but delivering a calculated philosophical assault:
"You count the deaths upon the bloody field,
And think the tally of the war is sealed.
Yet truly dead is he who chooses to forget
The simple ways a living man has met.
For Death arrives the moment laughter fails,
Concealed behind the cold metallic rails.
What harm can strike a vessel hollowed out by fear?
What can be stolen from one who holds nothing dear?"
Lyra didn't move. Her expression didn't change. She was a statue carved of stone and fury.
But internally? Chaos.
[Divine Power Effect: Charm Level 2 - Discipline Override]
The poem didn't make her heart flutter. It made her furious. Furious because it was true. It stripped her armor bare, not physically, but spiritually. It took her entire life philosophy—Control equals Safety—and called it a slow, deliberate death.
She thought of her father, a man who laughed too loud and died because he charged too soon. She had spent her life crushing every impulse, every smile, every 'soft' feeling to avoid his fate. And this tiny man, this poet, just told her she was already dead anyway.
Her blood boiled. But right beneath the surface of that military rage, the Divine Charm was screaming: "This is the only person who understands you! Secure him! Protect him! He is your only way back to life!"
Vael, seeing no emotional meltdown, breathed a huge sigh of relief.
"Okay. Good. No tears. No declaration of marriage. Just pure rage. I think I won."
Lyra finally moved. She took one step toward him, her eyes blazing.
"You arrogant idiot!" she spat, her voice shaking with controlled fury. She leaned in close, forcing Vael to back up until he hit the cold stone wall. "You think you know my life based on a few rhyming sentences? You think my discipline is fear?"
She raised her hand—not the sword, but her fist—and slammed it hard into the stone wall right next to his ear. The impact shook dust from the ceiling.
"You have given me nothing but a pointless riddle, Vael," she hissed. "But you are not wrong about the cost. You now have one month to prove that this 'love' that broke Astra is worth the destruction it causes. You will accompany me on my missions. You will see what real cost looks like."
She pulled back, her chest heaving. She didn't say, "Be my Consort." She said, "Prove to me that your way of life is better than mine."
"Consider it a... field study," Lyra finished, her lips barely moving. "Don't mess up. Or the fall from the battlements will be the least of your problems."
She vaulted back onto the window ledge, gave him one last intense, searching look—a look Vael mistook for pure hostility—and disappeared into the night.
Vael stood trembling against the wall, his heart finally slowing down.
"One month. Field study," Vael repeated, wiping the sweat from his brow. "She hates me, but at least she respects me. That's better than an armored wife, right?"
He grabbed his journal. He had just earned a field trip with Wife #2. The problem? Lyra was already acquired. He just didn't know it yet.