When Marisol enters the barracks that night, there is something in the air (almost like the lingering scent of ozone having burned) hidden beneath the layers of sorrow and sweat, of blood and tears. Her door is just slightly ajar, as though it had been hastily closed behind whoever had left it last and bounced slightly off the frame, and a flickering light can be seen within, beckoning the weary mare forward.

When Marisol opens the door, she’ll find that there are almost no signs of an intruder -- except that several surfaces have been covered in lit candles, casting a soft light around the room, and there has been a small bouquet of flowers (including lavender and chamomile) laid upon her bed. Should she lift the bouquet, perhaps to set it aside, she’ll find perhaps the most recent book she had been reading, along with a note laid on the book’s cover. The handwriting is carefully crafted, as though the writer had been trying hard to make it appear elegant -- despite that, there is still some roughness in the letters and how they run together, as though the writer is more habituated towards quickly-scribbled missives.

‘Asterion made it a habit to remind me that taking some time to myself was not a crime to be avoided. I think he would be honored if you would consider the same advice, despite the recent turmoil. Terrastella is strong, and will still be standing in the morning; I will take the night’s watch alongside the other cadets to make sure it is so, so that you might be afforded the opportunity to rest and face the coming days with full strength.

I hope that my love can offer you a measure of peace in these troubled times, even if small.

Blessed be the fight,
Theodosia.’