He awoke with a sharp inhale, sweat clinging to his brow.
Her name echoed in his mind like the remnants of a dream he couldn't hold onto. Asha.
For a moment, he thought she was still there — by the window, folding clothes, humming that little tune she always did when nervous. But the room was cold. Still. Her scent lingered, but she was gone.
He sat up with a start, ignoring the stabbing ache in his ribs. "Asha?" His voice cracked.
No answer.
His feet hit the floor. The blanket she'd tucked around him during their last argument lay folded at the edge of the bed, smooth. As if untouched. As if it was her last act of love — to keep him warm even after she'd decided to walk into fire.
He stumbled outside.
The village was quiet. Too quiet. Even the birds refused to sing.
His mind reeled back to the memory — not a dream. She had once held his hand under the stars, when they were just kids trying to find meaning in each other. He had asked, "Promise me you'll never leave me behind."
And she had smiled — heartbreakingly soft — but never answered.
Now he understood why.
Meanwhile — Asha
The clearing was no longer a place of peace. Smoke curled in the distance, and the rhythmic clang of weapons being checked replaced birdsong.
Asha stood among the chosen. Her face was still, blank. Not because she didn't feel anything — but because if she let it all out, she might break.
You lied to him, a voice whispered in her head.
No, she answered, I spared him.
She clutched her token — a small piece of red thread he had tied around her wrist months ago. For luck, he had said, not knowing he was tying her heart to his in ways she couldn't undo.
He had looked so shattered the night before. His eyes begged for an answer. And she had given him silence.
Not because she didn't love him. But because she did.
Because if he had known she'd been chosen — that she'd volunteered in his place when the notice arrived — he would have dragged himself from his bed, illness be damned, and stood between her and the war.
And he would have died.
She couldn't let that happen.
She wouldn't.
Back in the Village
He ran to the center of town where the old notice board stood — nails crooked, parchment flapping lazily.
"One from every home," the paper read. "No exceptions."
It was dated two days before.
He remembered the shouting. Her harsh words. The argument she had started on purpose. She had wanted him to think she didn't love him — so he'd let her go.
He grabbed a passing guard. "Where is she? Asha. My Asha. Where did they send her?"
The man hesitated, recognizing the name. "Centipede Front. West Ridge. The fens. They left at dawn."
His legs nearly gave out.
"She left me," he whispered, voice breaking. "To save me."
He stumbled toward the village gates, breath ragged, ignoring the pain in his chest. He reached the wooden fence — too high, too sealed — and banged on it until his knuckles split.
The guard on the other side looked down, brows furrowed. "They've already passed the swamps. You won't reach them."
"I have to try," he rasped. "I have to tell her I know."
But no one would let him through. The war was too close, too cruel, and civilians were to stay within the walls.
So he stood there — staring out toward the grey fog that had swallowed the path she took. Knowing she had lied. Knowing she had walked into the fire for him.
He sank to his knees.
Asha — Later That Night
The stars overhead reminded her of that night by the river.
He had kissed her for the first time — soft and shy — and then said, "I'd rather die beside you than live without you."
Now, those words came back to haunt her.
She whispered into the dark, "Don't die for me. Live for me. Please."
Because she wasn't going back to him.
And he didn't know that yet.