Ironclad and Iris

As the flames of war had just died down along the Frankish border, the two commanders each shed their bloodstained armor. The English commander, Cedric Blackwood, was a man as steady as steel, yet whenever he faced the Holy Maiden Eleanora de la Tour, a subtle warmth would creep into his tone. And Eleanora, known throughout the army for her sanctity and valor, repeatedly lost her composure before Cedric, her cheeks burning hotter than the beacons on the battlefield. Three months ago, they had been locked in combat; now, bound by a new alliance between their kingdoms, they sat inside the same tent. Outside it, none of the soldiers had any idea that something dangerous and unspoken was quietly growing between the holy maiden they revered and the commander of their former enemies.