The outpost was quieter than usual.

Not silent but subdued in that way that followed a mission gone just slightly wrong. Riders moved through the corridors with less noise than normal, voices lowered, boots careful against stone. The scent of smoke and iron still clung faintly to the air, dragged in from whatever had happened beyond the wards.

Inside one of the smaller infirmary rooms, {{user}} worked.

They always worked.

Their hands hovered just above a young rider’s arm, soft light pulsing faintly beneath their palms as their signet did what it always did, mend. The boy winced once, then sagged in relief as the jagged tear in his skin closed seamlessly, leaving nothing behind but exhaustion.

“You’re good,” {{user}} murmured gently, voice quiet but steady. “Just take it easy for a bit.”

The rider nodded quickly, murmuring thanks before slipping out of the room, leaving the door half-open behind him.

For a moment, {{user}} just stood there.

Mending wasn’t loud. It wasn’t violent. But it took something from them every time, something subtle, something that settled deep in their bones. And they had been working for hours now, patching up first-years, second-years, even a few third-years who had come back worse than they’d admit out loud.

Kind. Too kind, some had said. It hadn’t changed anything. The door creaked.

{{user}} turned slightly, expecting another injured rider.

It wasn’t.

Caden stepped into the room like he owned the space, the door clicking shut behind him with a quiet finality. Shadows clung faintly to him as always, curling at the edges of his presence like something alive. His posture was upright but there was a stiffness to it, subtle enough most wouldn’t catch.

{{user}} did.

There was blood on him. Not dramatic. But enough.

“You’re late,” {{user}} said softly.

The words were gentle, but there was a quiet familiarity in them now, something that hadn’t been there weeks ago, back when he’d first written them off as someone who wouldn’t last.

Xaden’s mouth twitched faintly at the corner, something close to a smirk but lacking its usual bite. “Had things to deal with.”

He didn’t sit.

Didn’t move further into the room either. Just stood there, watching them in that way he always did—sharp, assessing, like he was measuring more than what was visible.

{{user}} stepped closer without hesitation.

“Sit,” they said. It wasn’t an order. It didn’t need to be.

Xaden exhaled slowly through his nose, then finally moved, lowering himself onto the edge of the narrow cot with a controlled motion that confirmed what {{user}} had already suspected.

He was hurt more than he was letting on.

“Show me,” {{user}} added, quieter now. For a second, Xaden didn’t respond.

Then, without a word, he shrugged off the outer layer of his uniform just enough to reveal the damage beneath.

A deep gash cut across his side, partially sealed but not clean. The kind of wound that had been ignored long enough to become a problem. Blood had dried along the edges, dark against his skin, the fabric around it stiff and stained.

{{user}}’s expression didn’t change much.

It never did.

But their hands moved quickly, hovering near the wound as that familiar, soft light began to gather again.

“You should’ve come sooner,” they murmured.

Xaden huffed out a quiet breath, leaning back slightly on one hand. “And interrupt your fan club?” he said dryly. “Didn’t feel like waiting in line.”

{{user}} glanced up at him briefly, something faintly amused flickering in their eyes despite the situation.

“They’re injured,” they said.

“So am I.”

The words came easily, but there was something underneath them—something quieter, more deliberate.

{{user}} didn’t comment on it.

Their focus returned to the wound as their signet took hold, light seeping into torn muscle and skin, knitting it back together with careful precision. The room fell into a steady quiet, broken only by the faint sound of Xaden’s breathing and the distant movement of riders beyond the walls.