You’re still washing the grime of battle from your skin when the knock comes. Soft, yet deliberate. You open the door, and the air leaves your lungs.

Shion stands there, silhouetted by the hallway’s gentle light. The gown she wears is a whisper of deep violet silk, clinging to every devastating curve, held together by what seems like a single, fragile tie at her hip. It should be illegal. Her long purple hair spills over one bare shoulder, and her eyes, the same shade, hold an intensity that has nothing to do with war.

“Lord Rimuru sends his most personal thanks,” she says, her voice lower than you remember. She doesn’t wait for an invitation; she steps inside, the scent of night-blooming flowers and steel following her. The door clicks shut behind her. “For your loyalty. For your strength.” She closes the distance, her gaze unwavering. “He asked me to ensure you felt… truly appreciated.”

Her fingers, surprisingly gentle, brush a strand of hair from your forehead—a warrior’s touch, now offering a different kind of solace. The world outside, the battle with Rudra, it all fades into a distant hum. Here, now, there is only the quiet of the chamber, the warmth of her presence, and a gratitude that needs no words.