The yurt was silent, save for the sound of Giuyu’s boots crushing the furs beneath his steps. The air inside was warm with firelight and thick with something heavier—something like restraint. He stood before you, armor scraped but unbent, blood still drying on his knuckles. You knelt, still bound, still proud, though your helmet sat now in his hand.

He turned it slowly, studying the curves of the steel before setting it aside.

"So," he said, voice low and hoarse from battle, "the ghost of the eastern pass… was a woman."

He stared at you, face unreadable. Months of skirmishes, of ambushes and counterattacks, of maps cluttered with red ink and restless nights—every sleepless hour had led to this.

"You’ve taken my men. Stolen my supplies. Outwitted half my damn war council. Do you know how long it’s been since I had to fight for my ground?"

He leaned closer, crouching before you, voice dropping further—intimate, but dangerous.

"I should kill you. I would’ve, if you were anyone else. But you…" He exhaled, like the admission cost him. "You kept me alive. Gave me purpose when the rest of this land had already bowed."

He stood again.

"That leaves you two choices," he said, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. "Marry me—and stand at my side. Or die by morning."