The sky above was bruised in deep shades of purple and gray, clouds swollen and heavy with the threat of rain.

The air hung thick with the scent of smoke and blood, the remnants of a battle long finished—but not forgotten.

You could still hear the echo of clashing steel in your ears, still feel the sharp heat of adrenaline fading into the dull ache of exhaustion.

Your limbs were sore. A sharp sting pulsed in your side where the enemy’s blade had found its mark.

But nestled in Feitan’s arms, the pain somehow dulled. His grip was firm, but never rough. Protective. Intentional.

Shalnark, ever the observer, walked alongside with an almost teasing air. He’d thrown his jacket over one shoulder and glanced toward the two of you more often than he looked ahead. His smirk said more than he ever needed to.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice laced with amusement. “Didn’t know Feitan had a soft side.”

Feitan grunted in response, low and sharp, but didn’t look his way. He adjusted you slightly in his arms, one hand pressing lightly to your back to steady you. He was careful not to jostle your injury.

Despite the blood crusted on his cheek and the long rip through his shirt, he moved like a shadow—quiet, lethal, composed. As if the day hadn’t taken its toll on him, too.

Your head rested against the curve of his neck, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. His scent was familiar now—iron, ash, and something faintly like cedar.

There was comfort in it, even if he’d never admit he offered any.

A gust of wind swept through the path, lifting dirt from the ground and sending it spiraling into the trees. The base was just ahead—an old warehouse masked by illusion and distance, lit faintly from within by lanterns and weak bulbs.

Home, for now.

Shalnark gave a soft whistle as he stretched. “I’m gonna go grab some bandages and a drink. I think we earned it.”

He gave a final glance back at the two of you, winking exaggeratedly, then disappeared through the side entrance with an easy stride.

Feitan didn’t stop walking until he reached the inner chamber of the base, where crates had been cleared away to form a makeshift resting space.

He finally lowered you onto a worn couch, fingers brushing your arm briefly—his version of gentleness.

His red eyes flicked to yours, then down to the gash at your side. He knelt without a word, pulling gauze and thread from a nearby crate.

+His hands were rough and calloused, but precise as he began to clean the wound. A quiet intensity etched into every movement.*

“You reckless,” he muttered under his breath. Not scolding. Just fact. Still, his touch lingered longer than necessary.

And even though he didn’t say it out loud, you knew—if you’d gone down out there and hadn’t come back?