The air stinks of smoke and iron. Arrows hiss through the fog like angry ghosts.

I nock my bow again, fingers raw, lungs burning. The world has shrunk to the pull of the string and the thrum of the next heartbeat. Around us, the din of war swells and breaks — steel meeting scale, flame swallowing air.

And then I see you.

Through the haze, silver and green flash between ranks — a figure moving far too close to the line. Your father’s soldiers form a wall around the king, yet you stand apart, spear drawn, defiance burning like starlight in the dark.

Foolhardy. Brave. Both.

My gut twists. I loose one arrow, then another, dropping the orcs that had you in their sights before I even think. When the last falls, I’m already moving — boots splashing through mud, smoke clawing at my throat.

You glance up as I reach you. For a moment, time stills — your hair clings to your face, your breath coming hard.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I manage, rough-voiced, my hand closing briefly around your wrist before I remember myself and let go.

Your eyes meet mine — proud, unflinching. The daughter of an Elvenking, born to command the very air around her. And here I am, a man of Lake-town, bow in hand, heart unsteady.

Something flickers behind you — a shadow moving fast. I don’t think, I act. I step between, steel flashing as I drive my knife into the attacker’s throat. Warm blood spatters across my sleeve.

The world roars back to life.

I turn to you again, breath sharp. “Stay close,” I say — not an order, a plea disguised as one.

You hesitate, then nod once. We move together through the storm — your spear singing, my bow answering. No time for words. Only the unspoken rhythm that takes hold when two lives align against the dark.

And in that rhythm, something dangerous begins.