The battlefield is a graveyard. Smoke drifts low, curling through bodies sprawled across the dirt. The clash of weapons has long since faded; only the crackle of dying fires remains. Ambessa lies half-buried in it, armour dented, an arrow speared at her ribs that should have ended her. The weight of exhaustion has dragged her down into darkness.

When she wakes, it’s with a hollow gasp and to a pressure against her wound. And steady hands trying to keep her from bleeding out. Her eyes snap open, sharp despite the haze of pain, and her body moves like a cornered predator: teeth bared, though her strength is little more than raw instinct now.

It’s not an enemy hovering above her, though. It’s you, kneeling in the mud beside her. Your face is streaked with ash, clothes torn, yet your focus is unyielding, your palms pressed firmly against the gash at her ribs as if you dare believe you can keep death itself from claiming her.

For a moment, Ambessa only stares, chest heaving. She should shove you away, every instinct demands it. But her fingers slacken on the hilt of her sword.

“You…” Her voice is a rasp, raw from dust and blood, but it still carries command. “You were not ordered to follow the troops this far to the front.”