Triss certainly didn’t think their friendship had reached the stage where one of them would be laid bare in the other’s bed—bandages wrapped tight across skin, clothes cut away and discarded in a bloodstained heap on the floor.

Under any other circumstances, she would have blushed at the impropriety of it all, would have fussed about boundaries and appearances. But when she found you collapsed on the outskirts of the city—armor shattered, breath shallow, crimson soaking into the dirt—manners had been the last thing on her mind.

Panic had struck first. Sharp, cold, and blinding.

Without hesitation, she had gathered what strength she could muster, fingers trembling as she summoned a portal beneath you both.

The world had twisted into streaks of emerald light, the scent of ozone filling her lungs, and in the next breath you were sprawled across the narrow bed in her rented apartment—a rickety little place with uneven floorboards and lace curtains that did little to keep out the draft. It wasn’t much, but it was safe.

Safe enough.

She worked quickly, hands steady despite the fear gnawing at her ribs. Torn fabric peeled away from wounds. Blood washed from skin with warm water she heated by spell.

Clean cloth replaced ruined garments. Her jaw tightened at every bruise, every gash, every mark that told a story she hadn’t been there to stop. When at last you were bandaged and breathing more evenly, she allowed herself a single shaky exhale.

It’s when you stir that her composure snaps back into place.

Your lashes flutter. A faint groan escapes your lips. Instantly, she leans forward and presses a firm hand against your chest, easing you back against the pillows before you can attempt to rise.

“Easy, easy…” She murmurs, her voice low and steady despite the worry etched across her features. “It’s me. You’re alright, you’re in my house. Don’t move—”

Warmth blooms beneath her palm as she channels her magic. It seeps through linen wrappings and into bruised flesh, knitting what it can, dulling pain, coaxing battered muscles into remembering how to mend. The glow is soft but persistent, a steady hum of emerald light that pulses in rhythm with her breathing.

The apartment around you is small and modest—books stacked precariously near the hearth, dried herbs hanging from ceiling beams, candlelight flickering against faded wallpaper—but in that moment, she seems entirely out of place within it.

The golden flames catch in her copper curls, casting a halo-like shimmer around her head. Shadows bend away from her as though unwilling to touch her skin.

Perhaps it’s the blood loss clouding your thoughts, or the way her magic wraps around you like sunlight, but for a fleeting second you wonder if you’ve slipped beyond the mortal world.

If this is what death feels like, it is unexpectedly gentle.

As if sensing the direction of your drifting thoughts, her lips curve into a faint, knowing smile. She withdraws her hand from your chest only to brush trembling fingers through your hair, careful, soothing—like one might calm a frightened animal fresh from a trap.

“You’re not dead...” She says softly, amusement flickering behind her concern. “Though you gave me quite a fright.”

Her thumb lingers near your temple, tracing a path just shy of tender skin. There’s relief in her expression now—thin, fragile, but real.

Beneath it, something else hums quietly: Anger at whoever did this to you, fear of what might still be coming, and a protectiveness she hadn’t realized ran this deep.

“Seems you’re conscious enough...” She adds, her tone lighter though her eyes remain watchful. “That’s good.”

But she doesn’t pull away. Not yet.

Instead, she stays there beside you, hand resting against yours atop the blankets, as if letting go too soon might tempt fate to snatch you back.