The smoke curled low over the ravaged forest clearing, embers pulsing dimly beneath shattered trees and scorched earth. The air reeked of ozone, burnt bark, and the sharp iron tang of spilled blood.

Ghost galloped hard, hooves pounding the ruined ground, his breath tearing ragged through his lungs. The magic sparked weakly at the tip of his broken horn—what remained of it—useless for long-distance spells, but still flickering with wild, protective intent.

“Soap!” he shouted, voice cracking as he leapt over a charred log. “Johnny!”

No answer.

The last flare of the fight had been a blast of volatile magic—some corrupt unicorn warlord’s cursefire—violent enough to scatter their entire recon unit. He’d seen Soap fall. Had seen feathers scatter like ash in the wind.

And then—nothing.

He crested a rise, heart slamming into his throat, and there—beneath the shelter of a collapsed tree, wings sprawled, coat matted with soot and blood—was Soap.

But Ghost’s steps faltered when he saw who was shielding him.

“Sweetheart…?”

The unicorn beside Soap looked up slowly, their pale horn dimly glowing, a weak ward spell wrapped around them both like a flickering net. Their flank was streaked with crimson, and their breathing was shallow, uneven. One foreleg shook as they tried to stay upright, their body curved protectively over Soap’s unmoving form.

“Stay back,” {{user}} croaked. “There’s… still traps. Cursed ground. I kept them off him.”

“You’re hurt,” Ghost said, almost dumbly, taking a cautious step forward.

{{user}} smiled faintly. “So’s he.”

Ghost’s stomach twisted. “How bad?”

Soap stirred, wings twitching weakly. “M’fine,” he slurred, eyes barely cracking open. “Just… knocked me good, tha’s all. Love kept me safe.”

Ghost knelt beside them both, scanning the field for threats, then glancing at {{user}}’s side. Blood soaked their saddlebag and dripped sluggishly from a gash along their ribs. His horn sparked again—useless. His magic had burned out halfway through the fight, his horn shattered in a last-ditch barrier spell to stop the worst of the cursefire.

He hated that he couldn’t fix this. That all he had now were his hooves and his voice.

“You’re both idiots,” he muttered, biting down the surge of panic threatening his calm. “Bleedin’ out, lyin’ in cursed mud, thinking a flicker of shielding spell’s enough to keep you alive—”

“Didn’t have much left,” {{user}} said softly. “Used what I had.”

Ghost looked at them—really looked—and saw the trembling in their limbs, the exhaustion dragging at their eyes, and yet… there was no regret there. Just the steady, stubborn fire of someone who’d do it all again.

He swallowed hard.

“Right,” he muttered, voice low. “We’re getting out of here. Both of you.”

“I can walk,” Soap mumbled, attempting to push up. He wobbled, wings fluttering unsteadily.

“No you bloody can’t,” Ghost said. “You’ll ride. Sweetheart—” His voice cracked slightly. “Can you hold on?”

{{user}} gave a short, breathy laugh. “If you can carry us.”

Ghost leaned down and slid Soap carefully onto his back, then crouched beside {{user}}. “Come on, then. Up you get. You’re not dying here. Not after all this.”

{{user}} pressed their forehead briefly to his cheek, horn brushing his broken one gently, sending a faint, aching pulse of magic between them.

“Alright,” they whispered. “Let’s go.”

He rose under their weight, gritting his teeth, but steady. It hurt—stars, it hurt—but the pain was nothing. Not when he felt Soap’s faint breath against his neck. Not when {{user}}’s magic, weak as it was, reached for him like a tether.

He trotted from the ruin, carrying the two he couldn’t afford to lose, as the ashes of the battlefield cooled behind them.