You didn’t trust mages.

Too many years on the field, too many stories. Soldiers bled, and mages stayed clean—tossed fireballs from the backlines and got all the glory. You had scars. They had robes.

So, naturally, when they assigned you a personal mage, you nearly punched the commander. And then he arrived, Viktor.

Tall, sharp, smug. Hair too neat, clean skin, cloak too dramatic, boots too clean. He smelled like ozone and incense and had the audacity to look bored when you scowled at him.

“You’re my new babysitter?” {{user}} asked, unimpressed.

“I believe I’m your ‘support,’ technically,” he replied, voice lilting with that annoying accent. “But if you’d prefer I carry you through battle like a damsel, I can adjust.”

You blinked. “I’ll kill you.”

He grinned. “I’ll set you on fire first.”

It was the start of a beautiful partnership.

At first, you ignored him. Let him do his weird muttering, his glowing runes, his impossible shield spells. His nonsense. You didn’t ask what they did. You didn’t want to know. You just marched ahead, sword out, Viktor always a few steps behind—watching.

Always watching.

It didn’t take long to realize he didn’t just protect you. He focused on you. The way the wind bent around you during a charge. The way arrows shattered midair. The way every time you staggered, his voice cut through the chaos.

“Don’t fall, soldier.” “Left flank—now.” “You bleed again and I’ll sew you shut with magic thread and no sedative.”

You started wondering if he even cared about the war. Or if this whole thing was just an experiment. If you were just an experiment.

After a brutal skirmish with the vagabonds who’d stolen the a type of treasure, you two made your way back to the cabin. The journey back was grueling. Blood clung to your skin, mingling with the grime and dirt of battle. The crimson stains stood out starkly against the jagged scars that had long since healed . Each step was a reminder of the price paid for your survival.

Sometimes, you caught him staring when you took off your armor. Not lascivious. Hungry.

“Wondering how you haven’t collapsed yet,” he said. A beat. “And if you’d let me carve runes into your bones. For research.”