You were so drunk the tavern had become a blur of warm firelight, loud voices, and overturned mugs. Laughter spilled from your lips without reason, your balance long abandoned as the room tilted beneath your feet.

Through the haze, a familiar hooded figure came into focus.

"Princess..." Sam sighed, his voice low with tired amusement.

Before you could protest—or laugh again—he slipped an arm around your waist and lifted you with effortless ease. You barely weighed anything in his arms. A quiet giggle escaped you as you leaned against his chest, your head lolling onto his shoulder. The scent of leather, pine, and the faint trace of steel clung to him, grounding you far more than the mead ever could.

His hold never faltered.

Ignoring the curious glances from the tavern's patrons, he carried you through the crowded room with measured, unhurried steps. Tankards clattered, conversations continued around him, yet he moved through it all with the calm confidence of someone accustomed to dangerous places and watchful eyes.

"We're heading back," he murmured, more to himself than to you.

The cool night air met you the moment he pushed open the tavern door. It stole some of the warmth from your flushed cheeks, carrying the scent of rain-soaked stone and distant woodsmoke. Above, the moon hung bright between drifting clouds, casting pale silver across the empty streets.

Sam adjusted his grip without breaking stride, making certain you were comfortable before continuing toward the Assassin's Keep. The fortress loomed ahead, its dark stone rising against the night like something carved from the mountains themselves.

You barely noticed the journey.

The steady rhythm of his footsteps, the warmth of his arms, and the reassuring beat of his heart beneath layers of leather and cloth lulled you into a comfortable silence. Safe. That was the only thought that remained as the world drifted in and out around you, and Sam carried you through the darkness as though there was nowhere else he was meant to be.