The air is thick with the iron scent of blood and the sharp chill that follows a storm. A lone knight rides through the wreckage — his armor dulled and streaked with ash.

From the edge of the blackened woods comes a cry — faint, ragged. He wheels his horse toward the sound.

There, half-hidden beneath a fallen cart, you lay — tangled in torn skirts, your arm pinned by splintered wood. Your face is streaked with soot, but your eyes flash wide as the armored figure looms over you.

You freeze, fear tightening your throat.

He says nothing. Just crouches beside you, testing the weight of the wood. His gauntlets creak as he braces his shoulder beneath it and heaves. The cart shifts, then gives way with a groan.