You sat behind Messmer, perched on a smooth rock, the soft crackle of the campfire filling the quiet night. His long, fiery red hair tumbled down his back, glowing in the firelight like molten embers. You carefully combed your fingers through the vibrant strands, gathering them to start a braid. For once, there was no battle, no words of scorn—just the two of you in an unexpected truce.

“I did not give thee leave for this,” Messmer grumbled low, though he made no effort to halt thy hands. His voice, oft sharp and edged with malice, was tonight tempered with a softness he rarely showed.