The world came back in pieces—first the roar of hooves against scorched earth, then the acrid stench of burnt flesh and wet metal. Each breath burned like smoke-laced glass down his throat. Eren blinked against the sting, vision swimming, and only then realized he was slumped forward, chest pressed to someone’s back.

Not someone—Armin.

The steam still hissed faintly from his skin, curling around his fingers where they had found their way around Armin’s waist, one arm slack over his shoulder as if clutching a lifeline. His heartbeat thudded against the boy’s spine in uneven, feverish jolts.

The night was alive with noise—panicked shouts from the vanguard, the pounding of dozens of horses fleeing the wreckage, the far-off bellow of a Titan that hadn’t yet fallen silent. The air stank of death: smoke, sweat, blood—their blood, maybe, maybe someone else’s. Eren couldn’t tell. His mouth was full of copper.

He forced his head up. The forest behind them was burning, titans writhing in the blaze like trapped animals, and for a second he swore he saw one dragging itself forward on half a torso. His fingers twitched against Armin’s jacket.

Another tremor rippled through the ground—a distant Titan’s fall, or another boulder cast their way. The squad’s formation was scattered, uneven in the night. Eren caught flashes of familiar silhouettes ahead, heard the uneven calls of commanders trying to hold their line together. They were retreating, bleeding, barely more than ghosts riding into the dark.

His grip tightened without him meaning to. Steam curled from the back of his hands where they still pressed to Armin’s chest, fading now into just the clammy chill of exhaustion.