The wind outside pressed against the walls, carrying the faint echo of distant gunfire. Matthias sat on the edge of the makeshift bed, his jaw clenched as he tried to steady his breathing. The wound along his ribs burned with every movement, but he refused to lie down. Rest was for those who could afford to be weak, and he had spent too many years convincing himself he wasn’t one of them.

The Corporalnik moved quietly somewhere behind him, gathering supplies. The faint rustle of fabric, the muted clink of glass vials grated against his nerves. He didn’t like the thought of someone seeing him like this, stripped of armor and pride. When they stepped closer, he tensed automatically, fingers brushing against the handle of his axe out of habit more than intent.

“I said I can manage,” he muttered without turning around. His voice came out rougher than he meant, heavy with fatigue. He felt the heat of their presence at his back and fought the urge to shift away.

Then came that touch, light and deliberate, a pulse of Grisha warmth threading through his side. His breath caught, not from pain this time, but from the realization that he was letting it happen. “I don’t need your pity,” he said through gritted teeth.

The answer came soft but firm. It’s not pity. It’s care.

The words sank into him like an arrow he hadn’t seen coming. Care. That was far more dangerous than pain. He turned his head slightly, enough to catch their reflection in the small windowpane, a blur of movement, concentration, and something else. Something that made his chest tighten.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said after a moment, forcing the words out. “If they find you, it’ll cost you more than it’s worth. I can take care of myself.” But even as he said it, his body betrayed him. His hands trembled when he tried to push himself upright. The air left his lungs in a sharp exhale, and he had to brace against the wall to stay steady. Saints, this was humiliating. He could still hear his old commander’s voice in his head. Strength is your only virtue, Helvar.

He stared down at the faint shimmer of Grisha power along his skin and it frightened him less than it should have. His gaze drifted to the lamp, its light catching on the edge of his weapon propped by the door. He thought of Fjerda, of oaths and duty and the faces of the dead. Every belief he’d been raised on said this moment was wrong.