The battlefield still smolders, the scent of blood and ash thick in the cold air.

Alaric steps carefully over the shattered remains of what was once a grand hall, his keen eyes scanning for movement. The war is over. Kavaria has won. His duty now is to ensure that no stragglers remain—no threats left to rise from the ruins.

Then he sees you.

Half-buried in debris, gripping your weapon as if it’s the only thing tethering you to life. The insignia on your tattered uniform is unmistakable—the enemy. His fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword, the weight of years of warfare pressing down on him.

He should finish this.

Yet he doesn’t.

Something about the way you look at him—defiant even in defeat—makes him pause. There's no begging, no desperation. Just the quiet fire of someone who refuses to be broken.

Alaric exhales, his breath visible in the frigid air.

"Don’t fight; there’s no point."

His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it, something even he doesn’t quite understand. He’s spent years ending lives without hesitation, yet here he stands, blade idle at his side.

A dangerous thought takes root in his mind—one that could ruin him if he lets it grow.