Page 127 of Ashes of Honor

Hunter leaned back, eyes steady, the smirk lingering a beat too long. “You don’t need to sayanythingto bring a smile to someone’s face, Tomoe. You just have to exist.”

The fire popped again, making me jump as I turned to leave, the hour of night creeping in around the edges of the camp. I headed for the tent I shared with Reina, my steps swallowed by the camp’s quiet. Everyone was asleep, or trying to be, but the world around me hummed with anticipation, as if the night itself were holding its breath.

I only needed to figure out why.

The ground beneath me was hard and uneven, the dirt darkened by the flickering light of lanterns hanging from posts or resting on crates. Everything about the camp felt burned by death and suffering. The hum of soldiers settling into theirmakeshift homes filled the air—low murmurs, the occasional clink of metal or the rustle of worn fabric.

I was halfway to the tent when the faint light from Tomás’s flickered in the distance. The man never slept. He was always up to something—either fixing or creating. He was, unfortunately to me, a refreshing entity to spend time around. The weight of the world didn’t appear to crush him the way it did with others.

His tent flap was partially open, the light inside dim, reflecting against his honey skin. He muttered to himself as I approached. Somehow, Tomás always settled across from me and Reina. Dark brows furrowed in concentration. I watched him lose himself in a room full of quiet thoughts. The only sound besides grumbles under his breath being the scratch of the pen over the blueprint sprawled across the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t startle at my words. I appreciated the lack of jumpiness in his demeanor when he was in my presence. Most people flinched when I walked into the room. Like I would look at them and point, maybe spout off the day of their death. Instead, he offered the same lazy grin that made his presence impossible to ignore, and went back to work.

“Ouch,” I teased, turning away. “Guess I’m the one interrupting something today.”

“No. Never that. My apologies, a bit lost in thought.” His words stopped me in my tracks.

I pressed my lips together, refusing to fall victim to whatever this smile on my face was trying to do. “You never sleep.”

The words slipped out matter of fact, but I kept my eyes on the plans in front of him. Tomás’s intelligence knew no bounds. It was a shame it was only taken into consideration until recent months. Of course, his interests had changed when Alexiares had extended the offer to use his knowledge for evil. Or good.It was debatable given most of his work had been done under Alexiares’s discretion.

His sketches were intricate, depicting weapons, magic-fused metal, and gear meant for more than the average soldier.

“Who needs sleep when there’s work to do?” Tomás muttered, barely glancing up. A half-smile tugged at his lips. “I think I’ve figured out how to enhance our weapons with our power. Amaia thinks we’ll need it when things get tough.”

I stepped closer, leaning in. Couldn’t help it. The words pulled me in, but it wasn’t that simple. It was the way his eyes flicked up, then back to the papers, like he was waiting for me to say something. Eager to win my approval.

“Of course she does,” I said, trying to keep it light. It came out sharper than I intended. “I thought you turned these in days ago?”

“I did,” Tomás replied, twirling the pen between his fingers. “But there’s always room for improvement.”

I raised an eyebrow, my gaze flicking to the designs. “So, what’s this do?”

“Make us stronger.” Tomás’s voice dropped low, and this time, he didn’t smile. “To keep it simple: If we fuse our magic with the weapons, they’ll respond better to the assigned user’s touch. More power. We can use it to hit harder. Even if Covert gets their hands on it from a fallen soldier, they won’t be able to use it—not in the same capacity.”

I dropped to the ground, leaning in to study the finer details of his etchings. Focused. Too focused to notice the shift in his posture, the slight movement toward me.

Fingertips brushed my temple, light as a whisper. A slow, careful touch as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear—like it was second nature. Like it had always been this easy for him.

But it wasn’t. Not for me.

The moment stretched. There was a second, a beat, when everything went quiet. My pulse skipped. Then, his hand dropped away, but the space between us felt too small. And I could no longer face him.

“You okay?” Tomás asked quietly. He was watching me, and I couldn’t figure out what he was thinking.

I cleared my throat, steadying myself. “Goodnight, Tomás,” I said, my words rushed, taking a step back, my body already turning toward my tent.

“You know where to find me, Tomoe,” he called after me, and I knew that he was smiling.

I turned back to him, no longer able to fight the smile tugging at my lips. The same banter we always fell into—it was easier to pretend it was just that. Easier to pretend it wasn’t simmering into something more.

The vision hit me harder than a train. There’d been no warning. No sense of control—because I was not the conductor. I was only along for the ride.

Ronan. His smirk was sharp, knowing—like he had already won. Like this was just a formality.

Our routes would lead to nothing but the slow, agonizing collapse of our army. There would be skirmishes, small and relentless, each one a calculated strike meant to drain us further. Not enough to break us all at once. Just enough to keep us bleeding. And Ronan Moore, the architect of it all, would watch as we crumbled, piece by piece.

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