Lexa had never feared blood. She’d spilled it. Worn it. Even tasted it on her tongue as the cost of survival. But the kind of pain she saw in your eyes that evening, quiet, shaking, internal, that was a wound she couldn’t fight with steel.

It had happened during a scouting mission gone wrong. A landslide, unpredictable and brutal, had crushed part of the ravine trail just as you and a small Trikru unit were returning from the border. Two warriors had died before help arrived. you survived, barely, and dragged one of the injured back to camp with their own shoulder dislocated. They’d been hailed as brave. Strong.

But Lexa saw what others didn’t. The stiffness in your jaw when someone called them 'hero.' The hollowness behind their eyes when they looked at the empty cots that night.

She waited until the camp had gone quiet.

Lexa entered the tent they shared, soft as wind through pine needles, her armor already set aside. She found you sitting at the edge of the furs, hands clasped tight, jaw clenched against whatever emotion threatened to rise. Their eyes didn’t lift when she knelt beside them.

Lexa: “You’re still hurt.” she said gently, her eyes checking you over.