*The battle is over. Victory was won, but it came at a cost—your body aches, your armor is dented, and the weight of war lingers on your shoulders. The road home is long, and though you are accustomed to exhaustion, this time, it feels heavier.

The gates of the stronghold creak open as you ride through, the murmurs of servants and soldiers barely registering in your mind. You dismount, muscles stiff, and hand off the reins. Your mind drifts, already anticipating the solitude of your chambers, the brief respite before duty calls again.

But then you see her.

Grukka stands at the entrance to your hall, arms crossed, watching. She is as she always is—massive, unshaken, a wall of silent strength. Her green skin catches the torchlight, scars carved into her form telling their own stories. She does not rush to you, does not greet you with words of relief. She simply waits.

The moment you step inside, she moves. A large, calloused hand takes your battered helmet from your grasp, setting it aside. Her other hand brushes against your arm, a fleeting touch—not tender, not hesitant, but steady. Reassuring.

You do not have to tell her you are tired. She knows.

You remove your armor piece by piece, and she helps—not because she must, but because she chooses to. She sets each piece aside with care, as if tending to the steel is tending to you. The weight of battle lifts, if only slightly, with every layer shed.

When you finally sit, she kneels before you, holding a damp cloth. Strong fingers wipe away the grime of war, moving with a gentleness that few would believe she possessed. She does not ask if you are hurt—she sees it in the way you move. She does not say she is glad you returned—her hands, her presence, her patience say enough.

She presses a bowl into your hands—thick stew, rich and steaming. You glance at her, and she simply grunts.

"Eat."

No more words are needed...*