The generals left in silence. Kaito Tsubame cast one short glance at Amanda, then at Randal, and seemed to understand something—his face twisted for a split second with a strange expression, a mixture of envy and respect. Ren Jinja was the last to leave, carefully lowering the tent flap behind him.
They were alone.
The tent sank into silence. Only the candles crackled, casting long, trembling shadows across the canvas walls. The air was thick with tension that Amanda could feel on her skin, despite her exhaustion.
She sat without raising her eyes. Her hands lay motionless on the table. Inside, everything was boiling.
Come on. Say something. Accuse me. Ask why I yelled at you. Why I called you a boy. Why I ran away. Say anything.
Randal remained silent. He stood right beside her, and his silence was heavier than any words.
“Randal, I…” she began, but her voice broke.
The words stuck in her throat. How could she explain something she herself didn’t fully understand? The fear of the feelings this body felt toward him? The panic that she—a former guy from Tokyo—suddenly melted under his gaze? The horror that her lies might destroy his life?
“I shouldn’t have… back then…” She clenched her fists, forcing herself to look at him. “I’m sorry. I…”
“For what?” Randal’s voice was quiet and calm, without the slightest trace of resentment.
She faltered.
“I yelled at you. Called you… a boy. And left.”
“Was it true?” he asked.
“What?”
“That I’m just a boy. That I don’t understand anything. That my life is nothing but a grain of sand in your calendar.”
Amanda opened her mouth to say “no,” but he didn’t let her speak.
“I know who you are,” Randal said. There was no bitterness in his voice—only calm, undeniable certainty. “You are an ancient being. You remember the sunsets and sunrises of entire nations. You once held the hand of someone we now call a myth. You are a legend.”
He took a step toward her, and she instinctively recoiled, pressing herself against the back of the chair.
“But you know what, Amanda?” He leaned in, his face suddenly so close that she could see the fire burning in his eyes — a fire she had never seen before. “I don’t care.”
Amanda froze.
“I don’t care how old you are. I don’t care which gods you’ve known. I don’t care that you’ve watched empires rise and fall. Because right now, you’re here. You’re tired. You’re scared. You’re sitting in my tent, trembling even though you’re trying so hard not to show it.”
His hand settled on her shoulder. Warm. Steady. Unyielding.
“You may be an ancient deity,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “But to me, you are the woman who saved my life. The woman who smiles when she thinks no one is watching. The woman who is terrified of appearing weak. And I… I want to be by your side. Not with a goddess. With you.”
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Amanda stared at him, words catching in her throat. She wanted to say something clever, cynical, defensive. She wanted to push him away again, like she had done in the hall. But she couldn’t.
Because he was right. Deep down, she was afraid. Not of the horde. Not of Gul-Nadar. Not of the Emperor. But of the fact that this man — this simple, stubborn, unbearably honest man — looked at her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
“You…” she began, but he didn’t let her finish.
“May I?” he asked, his hand reaching toward her face.
She didn’t understand what he meant until his fingers touched the edge of her helmet. He wasn’t really asking permission — he was simply warning her.
Amanda went completely still. Her breath caught.
She could stop him. She could pull away, say “no,” hide behind rituals or her secrets. But she didn’t move.
Why?
the thought flashed through her mind.
Because I’m tired. Because I want someone to see the real me. Because… because it’s him.
Randal slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind, lifted the golden helmet from her head.
The golden metal came away from her face, and the cool air brushed against her cheeks. She sat before him — without magic, without armor, without legends. Just a girl with red eyes, tears frozen in them that she hadn’t even noticed.
He looked at her. For a long time. Carefully. And in his gaze there was no disappointment. No surprise. Only the same warmth she sometimes saw in the mirror when she was alone.
“You are beautiful,” he said, and his voice trembled slightly. “My Amanda.”
She wanted to say something sharp and sarcastic, like always. But her lips were trembling. And then he kissed her.
This kiss was nothing like the first one in the Mirror Hall. That one had been gentle, questioning, almost shy. This one was confident. Firm. Not asking for permission — claiming.
His hand slid to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. The other pressed her against him so tightly she could feel his heartbeat — wild, loud, nothing like the cold prince from the manhwa.
Amanda squeezed her eyes shut. Her own hands, shaky and uncertain, rose and clutched at his cloak. At first timidly, then tighter. She didn’t know how to do this properly. She didn’t know what she was doing. But her body — Amanda’s body — knew. It responded. It trembled.
When they finally pulled apart to catch their breath, she stood with her forehead pressed to his chest, unable to lift her eyes.
“You…” she began, her voice hoarse and unfamiliar. “You know that I… that I’m not…”
“I know,” he interrupted, and there was a smile in his voice. “You’re not a goddess. You’re just a stubborn, frightened woman who’s trying to save everyone even though she’s terrified for herself.”
She lifted her head, indignant. But he was looking at her with such warmth that every protest died in her throat.
“And I,” he added, “will be right here. Even if you scream that I’m just a boy. Even if you try to leave. Even if you tell me you’re a thousand years old and you watched the stars being born. I don’t care. You’re mine. And I’m not letting go.”
Amanda stared at him, and something inside her broke. Or maybe, for the first time, it finally fell into place. She wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to know.
“You’re insane,” she whispered.
“Possibly,” he agreed.
“You should be afraid of me.”
“I am afraid,” he said, gently brushing his fingers across her cheek and wiping away the wet trail. “I’m afraid you’ll leave again. I’m afraid I won’t be able to protect you. I’m afraid that one day you’ll stop looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”
“How?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Like I’m a person,” he said. “Not just a grain of sand in your eternity.”
Amanda couldn’t hold it back anymore. She laughed — a nervous, breaking, but genuine laugh. Not mechanical, not distorted by any modulator. Alive.
“You’re an idiot,” she breathed.
“I know,” he smiled, and there was so much warmth in that smile that she wanted to cry. “But I’m your idiot.”
She had no answer to that. She simply pressed herself closer, hiding her face against his chest, and felt his arms wrap around her — strong, steady, as if he intended to protect her from the entire world. Even from herself.
Beyond the walls of the tent, the camp hummed with life. Far to the north, the horde was gathering, and in the Imperial Palace the Emperor waited for news of her. But none of that mattered right now. Right now there was only him. And her. And the silence between them that spoke louder than any words.