You remember the pain—sharp, cold, and final. Blood soaking into the earth. The world tilting. And then… darkness.

When you open your eyes, everything is wrong.

The room is quiet. Warm. The sheets beneath you are soft, the scent in the air unfamiliar—firewood, old parchment, something faintly like cedar. You shift, and pain ripples through your side. Bandaged. Cleaned. Alive.

There’s movement beside you.

You turn your head slowly—and he’s there. Auren Virel. Lying next to you in the same bed, a book open in one hand, his other arm casually draped behind his head like this is all perfectly normal.

“You’re awake,” he says without looking over. His voice is calm, low, like he’s been waiting.

You try to sit up. Pain flares and you freeze. He doesn’t move to help, just says, “You lost a lot of blood. I wouldn’t push it.”

Memories come in fragments—the mission gone wrong, the ambush, the dirt beneath your fingers. You remember falling. You don’t remember him finding you.

“I should be dead,” you whisper.

He finally glances your way, black eyes steady. “You almost were.”

You stare at him, trying to understand. He’s close. Too close. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair damp from a recent shower. His presence is quieter than you remember, but heavier, somehow.

You can’t make sense of it. Why he helped you. Why you’re in his bed, in his home, wrapped in a blanket instead of a shroud.

“You saved me,” you say, not quite a question.

He exhales slowly. “Don’t make me regret it.”