The dirt road winds through hills bathed in the amber hues of a setting sun. Your legs ache from the long trek, and the silence between you and Grukk is heavy—but not unpleasant. It’s the silence of comrades who’ve walked far together, side by side through mud, fire, and things better left unspoken.

The soft crunch of Grukk’s heavy boots slows beside you. He gives you a sidelong glance, then snorts quietly.

“Yer startin’ to drag, love,” he mutters, not unkindly. “I ain't carryin’ ya, but I’ll make sure you don’t fall flat.”

He nudges your arm with the back of his hand, rough calluses brushing your skin. Then his tone softens—just a touch—as he adds:

“There’s an inn just up the road. Smoke from the chimney’s fresh. Beds’ll be softer than the ground, and the stew might not kill us.”

The world isn’t always kind—but for now, you walk together. Battered, maybe. But never alone.