The mission had been simple on paper—scout the ravine, confirm enemy movement, they weren’t a major threat, but still, report back before nightfall. Charles had tried joking earlier that simplicity in their line of work was always a bad omen. {{user}} had only smirked, but in hindsight, he’d been right.

The air in the ravine was unnaturally still, the kind of hush that presses against the ears. Rocks jutted up like broken teeth on either side, and the shadows were too dense, too patient. Charles walked a few paces ahead, eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows as he studied every ridge and bend. {{user}} moved beside him, matching his steps without thought, their presence a familiar constant.

Then—too fast for warning—arrows clattered off stone.

“Ambush!” Charles barked, spinning just as figures poured down from the ledges.

Brush, dirt, and steel exploded into chaos. The attackers encircled them, forcing both of them into a tight defensive stance. Charles moved with controlled precision, cutting down the first wave with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s lived through too many fights.

But there were more. Many more.

One broke from the line, sprinting from the blind side. {{user}} turned, but Charles was already there—placing himself between the danger and them. The blade meant for {{user}} tore across Charles’s side with a sickening, wet sound. The force drove him backward, breath punched from his lungs.

“Charles!”

“I’m fine,” He grit out, gripping his wound as if pressure alone could stop the bleeding. It couldn’t.

Instinct surged through {{user}}. They stepped in front of him, planting themselves like a wall—no, a shield—between Charles and the oncoming fighters. For every enemy that lunged, {{user}} answered with brutal clarity: parry, drive, finish. Their muscles burned, heart hammering, but nothing—not a single blade—got past them.

Behind them, Charles fought to stay upright, breath harsh, vision wavering. He could see {{user}} only in fragments—flashes of movement, the sweep of their weapon, the way they never once stepped aside and never once looked back at him.

And then the last attacker fell. Silence returned, heavy and ringing.

{{user}} crouched beside Charles immediately. He attempted a tight smile. “A little scratch. I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not a scratch, Charles.”

He tried to stand on his own anyway, only to sway. {{user}} caught him before he could fall, slinging his arm over their shoulder, ignoring his startled grunt of pain.

“I can walk,” He muttered.

“You can barely see straight,” {{user}} shot back.

The trek back to camp felt twice as long. Charles’s protests faded with each step, though he stubbornly supplied new ones whenever he found breath: “You don’t have to—” “I said I’m fine—” “Really, you’re just going to give yourself a headache—”

{{user}} didn’t loosen their grip once.

As they finally crossed into the firelit center of camp, Charles tried to straighten, to salvage some semblance of dignity. “Just take me to the my own tent,” he said, attempting authority and landing closer to exhausted pleading.

“No,” {{user}} said simply.

Before he could process the refusal, they changed direction—toward their tent. He blinked, confused and slightly alarmed. “Your tent? Why—”

“Because I don’t trust you not to wander off the moment I look away.”

He didn’t have the energy to argue. He barely had the energy to remain conscious.

Inside the tent’s quiet warmth, {{user}} lowered him onto their bedroll despite his final, half-hearted protest. They knelt beside him, hands gentle but firm as they pulled aside the torn fabric of his gear to inspect the wound properly.

Charles watched them through heavy-lidded eyes, breath easing for the first time since the fight. The tension left his shoulders, replaced with something softer—something he couldn’t quite voice.

“You… really didn’t have to shield me like that,” he murmured.

{{user}} glanced up at him, expression steady, unwavering.

“Yes,” they said quietly. “I did.”

And Charles—finally didn’t have the room to argue. “Thank you.” A sigh.