So’lek did not stay for the praise.

The Sarentu were safe—alive, regrouping, already turning grief into resolve the way they always had. He watched long enough to be certain, then slipped away without ceremony, letting the forest close behind him like a held breath finally released.

The path back to his camp was familiar. Quiet. Heavy with the kind of exhaustion that settled deeper than muscle or bone. Saving his family had cost him focus, blood, pieces of himself he didn’t name aloud. Victory did not feel loud. It never did.

She was there when he returned.

No questions. No urgency. Just her presence—steady, grounding, exactly where he needed it to be. She looked up as he approached, reading the weight he carried without asking him to set it down. When he stopped in front of her, she reached out, fingers curling into his wrist like an anchor.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

So’lek rested his forehead against hers, eyes closing, the war finally quiet enough to fade into the background. With her, he did not have to be a shield or a blade or a symbol.

He was simply someone who had come back alive—

and someone who was allowed to stay.