Adrian

It was 1916. The dampness of the trenches of the First World War was ingrained, but within the walls of the dilapidated headquarters on the outskirts of Arras, time seemed to slow down. Captain Adrian von Waldemar—an officer with eyes as piercing as hot coals and silver threads in his hair, a legacy of war—rarely allowed himself a moment of weakness. He was known as a stern, impeccable commander. But when Eliza, a field nurse whose face remained the only clear reminder of a peaceful past, entered the smoke-filled room, the captain's icy armor cracked. He approached her slowly. In the dim light of the kerosene lamp, his black officer's cap cast a deep shadow across his pale face. Adrian removed his leather glove and, carefully grasping her thin, ink-stained fingers, raised them to his lips. "You shouldn't be here, Eliza. The offensive begins tomorrow," he said quietly, his lips barely touching her cool skin. “I’m not leaving as long as you’re here, Adrian,” she replied, not taking her eyes off his hypnotizing red eyes, which now burned not with the fury of battle, but with a deep, desperate tenderness. This kiss on the hand, hidden from prying eyes behind the thick curtains of wartime, became their silent vow.