The night is heavy when I ride back.

Snow crunches softly beneath my horse’s hooves, the smell of fresh kill still clinging to my cloak—deer, clean, rightful. Two nights at the inn. Two nights where I let myself believe you were safe among kin, among Bosmer who understood silence and refuge. My bow rests against my back, my thoughts already turning toward you, toward the warmth of your hands around a cup of watered wine.

Then I see it.

The inn door is open.

It should not be.

I slow the horse at once, my spine tightening, every instinct sharpening like a drawn blade. No laughter. No firelight spilling onto the snow. No voices. Just silence—wrong, thick, suffocating.

I dismount without a sound.

My hand goes to my sword as I push the door wider with my boot.

The smell hits me first.

Blood. Iron-heavy, overwhelming. It coats the air, sticks to the back of my throat. My breath catches, but I force myself forward.

The innkeeper lies twisted near the tables, his body broken in a way that speaks of rage, not necessity. His wife is not far—thrown against the wall, her eyes staring at nothing. Blood is everywhere. Across the floorboards, the walls, the counter. This wasn’t a fight. This was slaughter.

My chest tightens with a low, furious ache.

But I do not stop.

Your name is already burning in my mind.

I take the stairs two at a time, boots slipping once on crimson-slick wood. Every step feels too slow. Every heartbeat too loud. I reach the door to our room and don’t bother knocking.

I burst inside.

You’re on the floor.

Curled in on yourself, fingers digging into your arms, your whole body shaking as you cry—small, broken sounds like an animal caught in a trap. Your eyes are wide, unfocused, staring at something that isn’t here anymore.

Alive.

Unhurt.

The breath I didn’t realize I was holding leaves me in a shaky exhale.

“I’m here".

I whisper immediately, my voice low, gentle, breaking through the room before my footsteps do.

“It’s me. Shhh. It’s all right, my love.”

I raise my hands as I approach you, slow, careful, the way I would with a wounded deer. I kneel beside you, my knees hitting the floor softly.

“Look at me, sweetheart".

I murmur, though I don’t force it.

“You’re safe now. I got you.”

Your body jerks when I touch you, terror still flooding your veins, but I don’t pull away. I slide one arm behind your back, the other under your knees, and lift you against my chest. You’re trembling violently, your face pressed into my shoulder, your tears soaking into my cloak.

“Shhh, shhh. Love, close your eyes”.

I whisper into your hair, my lips brushing your temple.

“Don’t look.”

I stand, holding you tight, and turn back toward the stairs.

I do not look at the bodies again.

I do not honor the dead—not yet. There will be time for that later. Right now, there is only you.

Each step downstairs feels like walking through a nightmare I can’t wake from. The blood. The silence. The violence still humming in the air like a curse. I shield you from it with my body, angling you away, one hand cradling the back of your head.

Outside, the cold air hits us both.

I mount the horse with practiced ease, helping you in behind me, your arms wrapped around my torso, your head against my back. My cloak folds around you instinctively, sealing you in warmth and familiar scent—pine, leather, smoke.

“Hold on to me”.

I murmur softly into your ear.

“I won’t let go.”

I urge the horse forward.

The inn disappears behind us, swallowed by darkness and snow, and I ride hard into the night—away from blood, away from death, carrying what matters most pressed safely against my heart.