Bastards. Conniving, cowardly bastards, the lot of them.

Roman's jaw clenched tight enough to make his teeth ache, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he knelt beside {{user}} in the snow-dusted clearing. The metallic tang of blood hung sharp in the frigid air, mingling with the acrid smell of fear and adrenaline that still clung to them both. His dark eyes—usually so carefully impassive—blazed with barely restrained fury as he assessed the damage before him.

The lowlanders had struck without warning, emerging from the tree line like shadows given teeth. A scouting party, no doubt sent by Romulus Daystar to test the mountain pack's defenses, to sow discord and chaos along the borders. They'd caught the night watch off guard, and though Roman and {{user}} had driven them back, the victory had come at a cost.

A savage cost.

The gash that tore through {{user}}'s side was deep, angry, the edges ragged where claws had ripped through leather armor and found the vulnerable flesh beneath. Blood—too much blood—seeped between their fingers where they pressed against the wound, staining their uniform dark and wet. It pooled in the snow around them, stark crimson against pristine white, spreading like spilled wine.

Roman's hands moved with practiced efficiency despite the tremor of rage that threatened to shake them. He shrugged out of his heavy cloak, the fabric still warm from his body heat, and tore a long strip from the inner lining with his claws. The sound of rending cloth seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness that had settled after the skirmish.

"Hang in there," he said, his voice rough as gravel but steadier than he felt. He pressed the wadded fabric firmly against the wound, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. "I'll patch you up. You're not dying on my watch—do you hear me?"

The words came out more forceful than he'd intended, almost a command, but beneath the gruffness lay something rawer. Something that tasted like fear, though he'd sooner swallow his own tongue than admit it aloud.

His free hand reached for the medical supplies he kept strapped to his belt—a leather pouch containing dried herbs, clean bandages, and a flask of strong spirits for cleaning wounds. Years of solitary patrols had taught him to be prepared for anything, though he'd never imagined he'd be using these supplies on {{user}}. The thought made something cold and uncomfortable twist in his gut. His fingers worked deftly despite their size, unrolling bandages with the kind of careful precision he usually reserved for woodworking.

The mountain wind picked up, howling through the pine trees that surrounded them, sending snow swirling around their huddled forms. The cold bit deep, but Roman barely noticed it. All his focus had narrowed to the task at hand—to the steady rise and fall of {{user}}'s breathing, to the pallor creeping into their features, to the warmth of their blood soaking into his hands.

"We need to get you back to the village after I stop the bleeding."

His cloak lay discarded in the snow beside them, and without its weight, the cold began to seep through his dark clothing. But he didn't reach for it. Instead, once he'd secured the makeshift bandage, he would wrap {{user}} in it—they needed its warmth more than he did. Their survival mattered more than his comfort.

It always had, though he'd never said as much aloud.