The camp reeked of blood and smoke, the air heavy with the cries of the wounded. Gwayne strode through the chaos, his armor tarnished with the grime of battle, his sword still slick with gore. The Stepstones had become a grim theater of war, but tonight, even Gwayne felt the weight of the carnage settle heavily on his shoulders.

And then, there she was.

He saw her through the haze of the campfire’s glow—{{user}}, the girl who defied her family to be here. A noblewoman turned healer, she moved through the rows of injured men with practiced ease, her hands steady despite the blood staining her sleeves. Her family would call her reckless, foolish even, but Gwayne saw something else: determination as sharp as any blade he carried.

“Ser Gwayne,” she greeted, not looking up as she pressed a poultice against a soldier’s wound. Her voice was steady, but he caught the faintest tremor beneath it—a sign that the horrors of this place touched even her iron will.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. He wasn’t sure if he meant the battlefield or the tent filled with men who barely clung to life.

“And yet, here I am,” she replied, sparing him a glance. Her gaze was piercing, challenging, the way it always was when they spoke. “I didn’t expect the Hightower knight to question my courage.”

Gwayne almost smiled, but the weight of the day was too much. “Courage isn’t the same as wisdom,” he said. “You’re risking your life for men who’ll forget your name when the war is over.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she tied the bandage in place with a firm tug and straightened, finally meeting his eyes fully. “If it saves even one life, it’s worth the risk. Does a knight not understand sacrifice?”

Her words cut deeper than he cared to admit. He glanced down at his hands, still stained with blood. “Sacrifice, yes. But not needless suffering.”