Gale had always prided himself on eloquence. On reason. On the ability to argue cleanly, to speak without losing his temper. And then there’s {{user}}.

She has this way of slicing straight through the scaffolding he so carefully builds—this sharp, impudent wit that cuts without malice, just precision. And gods, sometimes it infuriates him.

They were tired. Frayed. Snapping at each other about something entirely unimportant—who misplaced the camp map, or whose turn it was to inventory rations. A meaningless thing, but it escalated like wildfire.

Gale’s voice was raised. So was hers. There was that moment—the dangerous one—where he nearly said something he would regret.

So he turned. Dramatically, I might add. His robe caught the wind like a curtain on cue. And he tripped. Over her damned pack. Into a pile of muddy socks.

If there is a god of humiliation, they witnessed his descent firsthand. The moment that followed was silence.

Then—her laughter. That wild, stormy laugh that’s somehow never cruel. And his, tumbling after it.

They were ridiculous. Petty. Sopping wet and bickering about sock placement. But in that laughter, the anger was gone. And he saw her smile at him like he hadn’t just been the worst version of himself.

That’s the magic he couldn’t recreate. Not with spells, or scrolls, or any arcane theory.

Just… her.