Chapter 61: Stupid John

John waited until Lyra’s grip finally slackened. Her breathing slowed to a deep, steady rhythm, and her ears remained still against the pillows. Moving slowly, he shifted her arm off his chest, untangled his legs from her tail, and slipped off the furs. He pulled on his undershirt, laced his combat boots, and buckled his belt. Grabbing his SCAR-H from the wooden chair by the dying fire, he took one quiet breath, parted the heavy door curtain, and stepped into the cool mountain night.

The crisp air hit his face, shaking the last traces of mead from his head. He walked down the stone stairs toward the central square.

The party was still going. Floodlights illuminated long wooden tables covered in empty mess tins, bones, and half-drained clay jugs. A group of off-duty soldiers sat near the center of the camp, laughing with a handful of beastkin hunters while swapping rations for roasted ribs. The smell of charcoal and woodsmoke hung thick in the air.

John adjusted his rifle sling, planning to grab a bottle of water, check the sentry posts, and act as if he had spent the night reviewing logistics reports in his tent.

"You were gone a long time."

The voice came from the shadows beneath a supply awning near the terrace.

John stopped and turned. Elenore stood under the wooden overhang, her arms crossed over her chest. Her silver-blonde hair was tied back, and her pointed ears flared slightly toward him. Her amethyst eyes watched him with a sharp, guarded look.

"Still awake, Elenore?" John asked, keeping his tone even. "I thought you turned in hours ago."

"I do not sleep like mortals do," she said, stepping out into the light of the nearest floodlamp. Her gaze traveled from his boots up to his collar, taking in his wrinkled shirt and the strap of his chest rig. "The feast has been going on for half the night. Yet the Supreme Commander was nowhere to be seen on the grounds."

"I had business to handle," John said smoothly.

"Business."

"Yeah. Chieftain business," John replied, taking a step toward the mess table. "We had to go some things necessary for defense of the territory just in case that wyvern thing happened again, or the Solarians."

Elenore didn’t move. She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she listened to his explanation.

"Alliance coordination," she repeated, her voice dry. "In her private quarters. For over two hours."

"That’s how diplomacy works," John said, offering a small, dismissive shrug. "She’s the leader of this tribe, and I’m the commander of this outpost. We don’t negotiate defense treaties in the middle of a loud mess hall."

Instead of accepting the answer, Elenore took two measured steps forward. She closed the distance between them until she stood barely a foot away, her posture completely rigid.

"Elenore, what are you doing?" John asked, taking a half-step back.

She ignored the question. She tilted her chin upward, stepped closer, and took a deliberate breath through her nose, sniffing the air near his shoulder and neck.

John stared at her in disbelief. "Did you just sniff me?"

Elenore stiffened, realizing a second too late how close she had gotten.

She took a single, controlled step back, catching herself instantly. Her long ears gave a subtle, involuntary flick, and a faint, dusky pink crept across the high ridge of her cheekbones, but she quickly smoothed her features back into an aloof, stoic mask.

"I was merely checking your condition," she said, her voice smooth, level, and deliberately quiet. "Elven senses detect foreign oils and chemical traces easily. It is practical scouting protocol."

"By sniffing my collar?" John asked, watching her with a faint, amused smirk.

Elenore didn’t give him the satisfaction of a stammer. She held her chin high, though her emerald eyes briefly flicked away toward the treeline before locking back onto his face.

"I smelled spiced mead. And pine oil," she said calmly, though the slight, guarded dip in her cadence betrayed her. "Along with the distinct mark of the beastkin woman. It is lingering heavily on your uniform."

She paused, keeping her posture completely still. Underneath that composed elven reserve, her hands lightly tightened over her crossed arms, her nails pressing faintly into the fabric of her sleeves.

"Did you... bed her?" Elenore asked.

John coughed, caught off-guard by how directly she asked. "Wait, how would you—"

"So you did," she concluded smoothly, cutting him off before he could stammer out an excuse.

Her expression remained composed, but the faint color on her cheeks didn’t fade. Her lips pressed together into a quiet, firm line—a delicate, restrained pout that she tried very hard to disguise as detachment. Deep down, an unfamiliar, prickly envy simmered in her chest, but pride kept her from letting it spill over into a scene.

"It is fascinating," Elenore murmured, turning slightly to look out over the perimeter fence, her silver hair catching the dull gleam of the distant floodlights. "You spoke to me of tactical discipline and strategic priorities. Yet when presented with a chieftain in silk, human restraint appears rather... malleable."

"Elenore, it was complicated," John said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Culture shock, diplomacy, the mead... things got out of hand. I didn’t plan on it."

"You do not need to explain yourself to me, Commander," she said, keeping her tone cool and collected, even as her ears twitched subtly with lingering annoyance. "What you do with foreign dignitaries is entirely your affair. I am simply a civilian here."

She turned fully toward the path leading to the guest shelters, her graceful stride as steady and fluid as ever, though the rigid set of her shoulders made her quiet pique unmistakable.

How come he preferred that beastkin over her, she wondered. The thought irritated her, Did Lyra seduced him or used something to make him fall for her? She shook her head in silence,no, why is she thinking about this?

She turned to John and said. "Stupid John."