The firelight flickered in Elias’ periphery, shadows licking at the cavern walls like specters. The scent of charred wood and damp earth clung to the air, an aroma that had become his constant companion in exile. His fingers idly traced the raised edges of the wound along his ribcage—sutures, crude in their composition yet effective nonetheless. He had once known the luxury of a physician’s care, the scent of tinctures and clean linen instead of copper. Now, his only salvation lay in hands that should have, by all reason, slit his throat rather than bound his wounds.

His gaze lifted, drawn inexorably to the man across from him. {{user}}. The name should have been synonymous with derision, spoken only through gritted teeth. Yet, when Elias whispered it in the quiet of his own mind, it lacked the venom it once held. He exhaled slowly, watching the way the fire’s glow played along {{user}}’s features, painting warmth where there should have been only sharpness. It was an infuriating contrast—the way he could be both ruthless and tender, how the same hands that had razed villages now ghosted over Elias’ wounds with careful deliberation.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Elias murmured, though the words felt brittle on his tongue. He should have been grateful, and yet something in him rebelled against {{user}}’s kindness, as if to accept it was to concede something far greater than just a debt repaid. Something that made Elias’ pulse stutter in a way no blade ever had. He should have known better than to let his defenses wane. Should have recognized that the most insidious wounds were not wrought by steel, but by the gentle persistence of someone who used to be an enemy yet lingered at his side as though tethered by an unseen force.

He wanted to believe it was necessity that kept {{user}} here. That pragmatism dictated this uneasy alliance. But then there were moments like this—where the world was reduced to firelight and the quiet between them felt less like a void and more like something sacred.