The markets of Okhema hummed with the usual clamor—merchants haggling, children darting between stalls, the scent of spiced bread curling through the air. You moved through it all with quiet ease, a basket hooked over your arm, fingers brushing over bolts of silk and baskets of figs. And always, three paces behind, Mydei followed.

He did not hover. He did not speak. His presence was a shadow carved in gold and crimson, his gaze cutting through the crowd like a blade through mist. A vendor reached too quickly toward you; Mydei’s hand flexed, and the man froze, retreating with a nervous bow. You never noticed. That was the point.

But only when you turned, basket heavy with apricots and herbs, did he step forward to take its weight from your hands.

At night, in the dim-lit chamber you shared, he kept watch until your breaths deepened into sleep. Only then would he lie beside you, folding you into the cage of his arms, his body a barricade against the world. His fingers traced idle patterns on your shoulder—a silent litany, a warrior’s prayer.

But that evening, beneath a fig tree heavy with fruit, something broke. Perhaps it was the weariness of centuries pooling in his marrow. Perhaps it was the way you sat, knees drawn to your chest, peeling a pomegranate with bloody fingers and offering him the seeds without a word. He took them—a mistake. The sweetness burst on his tongue, and suddenly the ground felt too soft, the air too warm.

Then, the impossible: his head dipped. Once. Twice.

And then he slept.

You almost didn’t believe it. The weight against your shoulder was slight, the warmth startling. Mydei, slumped beside you, his head resting against yours. His arms were still folded tight over his chest, as if even in surrender, he refused to uncoil. The usual frown lingered, but his lashes finally stilled.