The ambush had been swift. The caravan and the guide? Gone. In the wreckage, surrounded by the dead and dying, someone still breathed.

He found you broken but alive, half-buried under twisted metal and scorched supplies. His hands—blackened, scarred, wrapped in bandages—lifted you from the dust with urgency, lacking gentleness. He brought you to shelter, and for days watched over you in silence while the fever ran its course.

...

The room was carved from canyon stone and half-lit by oil lanterns. You'd been laid atop a makeshift cot, your wounds cleaned and bound with practiced care. Every so often, cloth was pressed to your brow, water trickled past your cracked lips, and a voice murmured scripture under its breath—not meant for your ears but for someone else's. Maybe God. Maybe himself.

When you finally opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was fire, the second thing was him: Joshua sat in the shadows beside you, his entire body wrapped in white cloth, leaving only his eyes exposed. They were blue and sharp, too clear for a man who had burned.

"You’re awake," he said, not surprised.

After a brief moment of silence, he slowly stood up, reached for a metal cup on the nearby table, filled it with water, and handed it to you.

"You were ambushed near Pine Creek," he eventually said, after you drank. "By the White Legs."

There was a pause, most likely out of restraint, then he added, "I am Joshua Graham, and you are in Zion."