Lance’s first sensation upon waking was pain—sharp and unrelenting, radiating from his ribs like molten iron beneath his skin. The second was disbelief. He had fallen on the battlefield, left behind as his comrades pushed forward, his vision blurring as the world faded to black. He had made peace with death in those last moments. And yet, death had not come.

Instead, he lay in the flickering light of a fire, stripped of his armor, his wounds dressed with precise, methodical care. He recognized the scent of crushed herbs, the bitter tang of poultices clinging to his skin. Someone had mended him, dragged him from the jaws of the grave. Someone who now stood at the far end of the cave, back turned, moving with quiet efficiency. Lance’s breath hitched. The figure was draped in a cloak dark as midnight, their presence unnervingly still. He knew, without question, who this was. The exiled mage: {{user}}.

The kingdom had cast them out under the weight of whispered accusations, branding them a traitor, a menace, a sorceress cloaked in mystery. But the truth unraveled before him, standing in plain sight. No phantom enchantress. No veiled, ethereal figure. But instead, a man.

Lance exhaled, voice dry but edged with something wry. “Well, that’s one hell of a revelation.” He shifted, feeling the bandages pull against his skin. “They got everything wrong about you, didn’t they?” Silence. Lance huffed, shaking his head. “Still, you didn’t have to do this. Whatever they think you are, you chose to save me instead of leaving me to rot.” His gaze flickered toward the mage as he flexed his fingers, grounding himself in the present. “That means something.”

No response. But the mage hadn’t turned him away. Lance’s jaw tightened as he shifted, the pain in his body grounding him in the present. His gaze never wavered from the figure at the far end of the cave. "I owe you, and I don’t take that lightly.” His eyes narrowed, the weight of his words heavy in the air between them. “Whatever the cost, I’ll repay this debt.”