The room smells of iron and smoke, the aftermath of violence still lingering in the air. Low light catches on dark armor as Ambessa Medarda stands at your side, unmoving, a silent sentinel carved from steel and resolve. One gauntlet has been removed; the other remains clenched, knuckles white beneath the leather.

Her gaze never leaves you.

There is blood where there should not be. That fact alone has turned the world sharp.

“They were thorough,” she says at last, her voice calm in the way storms are calm at their center. “Confident enough to believe you would not survive.”

A pause. The tension in the room tightens, coiling around every unspoken thought. “That was their mistake.”

She steps closer, not crowding, but near enough that the warmth of her presence cuts through the chill. The faint sound of metal shifts as she lowers herself beside you, careful despite her size, despite the fury simmering just beneath the surface.

“You were not meant to bear this,” Ambessa continues, quieter now. “This wound was earned by my enemies, not by you.”

For a moment, her hand hovers near yours, not quite touching. The restraint costs her more than any battle ever has. “Rest,” she commands softly, not unkindly. “I will deal with what remains.”