Petals Amidst The Blood

The next day, Harmony found herself in the courtyard of the Dog Castle. Prince Evander stood at the side, flanked by several guards and advisers. Their conversation was tense, discussing the next maneuvers in the war, the borders, and tactical decisions. The sunlight glinted off polished armor and weapons, casting fleeting patterns on the stone walls, and the castle felt alive with a restless energy that pressed lightly against Harmony’s chest. She noticed the subtle, almost imperceptible ways the soldiers communicated—a flick of an ear, a slight sway of a tail, a shift in stance—silent gestures honed over years of discipline.

Evander’s voice was once again cold, decisive, commanding. Nothing in his tone betrayed the softness of last night, the vulnerability he had allowed her to glimpse. Yet even in his composure, Harmony could read the tiniest hints of something restrained within him: a controlled flick of his tail, a barely noticeable twitch of an ear, a measured pause in his posture. She watched from the edge of the courtyard as his sharp, piercing brown eyes scanned the surroundings, layered with vigilance, caution, and unspoken weight.

Their eyes met for a fleeting second. Evander quickly looked away—but Harmony caught a subtle flicker, a hesitation in his glance, a ghost of warmth that was not meant to be seen. His tail coiled slightly behind him, ears flicking with attentive caution, and Harmony sensed a restraint she could almost feel from afar. Somewhere beneath that disciplined exterior, he was aware of her presence in a way he would never openly admit.

War had shaped him from birth, she thought. Every cold glance, every measured word—that was his shield. Yet in the quiet rhythm of his movements, she could perceive the traces of someone who had learned to carry responsibility silently, who had spent a lifetime suppressing the personal cost of duty. Her heart tightened in empathy. She saw him not only as a prince, but as someone burdened with the lives of many. And still, a quiet resolve whispered within her chest: she would show him that emotions were not weakness… that even in the heart of war, there could be room for compassion.

The castle gates opened wide. A group of wounded soldiers was brought inside—some whispering, some on stretchers. The air was thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and dust; the groans of pain echoed against stone corridors. Harmony’s gaze fell on one soldier in particular—a young canine fighter. His chest was soaked in blood, his breathing shallow, and his eyes struggled to remain open.

“Quick! The doctor’s with the others!” one guard shouted. “Who can help him? He’s dying!”

A tight ache gripped Harmony’s chest. Her hands moved forward instinctively. “I—I can!”

The guards looked at her sharply. “You?”

She clenched her fists, feeling her pulse hammering in her ears. “I’m not a doctor, but I’ll try. I know how to stop bleeding, how to support breathing. If we do nothing, he will die!”

Evander stepped forward. His icy composure remained, yet the subtle curl of his tail, the careful shift of his weight, and the faint flick of his ears were almost imperceptible gestures acknowledging her courage. He did not speak, did not show admiration—but Harmony sensed, even from a distance, that she had his silent permission.

“Let her,” he commanded simply. “She can try.”

The guards stepped aside. Harmony knelt beside the soldier. Her hands trembled, but her heart guided her. She whispered, “Hold on… you won’t die…” and began pressing on the wound, fashioning a makeshift bandage from scraps of cloth.

Evander remained silently at the edge of the room, posture taut, ears and tail subtly alert. Every now and then, his gaze flicked to her hands, noting the steadiness in her movements, the careful pressure on the wound, the gentleness in her voice. Though he would never admit it, each motion she made carved a small crack in the armor around his own heart—a private acknowledgment of her bravery.

Three doctors soon arrived. One pressed firmly on the wound, another prepared a proper bandage, a third worked to regulate the soldier’s breathing. Harmony handed supplies, held bandages in place, wiped away blood, her face pale but determined.

“Hold on… please… just hold on…” she whispered, as if her words could tether him to life itself.

The soldier opened his eyes briefly, sensing something unfamiliar and warm in her presence. His lips moved slightly, whispering something inaudible, before his chest rose one last time—and stilled.

Silence fell. The doctors lowered their heads, accustomed to such moments. Harmony froze, hands clutching the bloodied cloth.

“No… no…” she breathed, tears welling in her eyes. Her chest ached with helplessness. “I couldn’t save him…”

Evander’s ears twitched once, tail brushing lightly against the floor, subtle and almost imperceptible—mirroring her sorrow without breaking his disciplined exterior. He remained still, silent, letting her grief have space. And yet, each careful movement, each attention to the smallest detail, was his way of processing, observing, acknowledging her pain, even if he would never show it. In that quiet moment, he recognized something familiar in her—loss he had felt long ago, a vulnerability he had been trained to suppress.

Harmony stayed beside the soldier’s body for a few moments longer. Her hands shook, the bloodied cloth slipping from her grasp. A single tear traced down her cheek, falling to the cold stone floor. Around her, life went on—stretchers carried, new injuries tended—but for her, time seemed suspended.

Evander watched from a distance. His posture remained firm, face unreadable. Yet the subtle twitch of his ears, the quiet sway of his tail, betrayed a private mirroring of her grief—a silent empathy that no one else could perceive. He did not speak. He did not intervene. And yet, inside him, he felt the faintest echo of what she carried. Something in her courage, her compassion, and her willingness to act in the face of helplessness resonated in a way he could neither name nor reveal.

That evening, Harmony sat by her window. The moon cast pale light across the stone walls, spilling over the quiet gardens. Her hands rested in her lap, fingernails pressing lightly into the fabric of her dress. The events of the day replayed endlessly in her mind—the wounded soldier, her desperate attempt, the emptiness in his eyes, and the fleeting sense of connection in her touch.

“They told me,” she whispered to herself, “sometimes you do everything… and it’s still not enough. And it’s not your fault.”

She let another tear fall, tracing her cheek. In the courtyard below, Evander remained vigilant, tail swaying softly, ears flicking. Though no word passed between them, subtle gestures echoed a quiet acknowledgment: a reflection of grief, a mirror of care, a silent tribute to shared understanding. He would never show it outwardly—but Harmony’s presence had left an impression, one that would quietly influence him in the days to come.