The signal is faint.

Too faint to be real—but you follow it anyway, weaving through the trees beyond Trikru borders, pulse pounding. No one is supposed to be this far out. Not alone.

You find her at dusk.

Echo kom Azgeda lies half-hidden in the snow-dusted underbrush, armor cracked, blood dark against white. Her hand twitches toward a blade that isn’t there when she senses you.

“Don’t,” she rasps.

You freeze, hands raised. “I’m not Trikru.”

Her eyes sharpen despite the pain. Azgeda. Warrior. Enemy.

“Then why help?” she asks.

“Because you’re bleeding.”

She laughs weakly. “Bad reason.”

You ignore her, tearing fabric to bind the wound at her side. She watches every move, cataloging threats even as she fades.

“You should kill me,” she murmurs. “They would.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But I’m not them.”

Night falls hard and cold. You drag her into a cave, light a fire. When she wakes again, she’s furious—and alive.

“You had no right,” she snaps, trying to sit up and failing.

“You didn’t ask,” you reply. “You were unconscious.”

Silence stretches. Finally, she exhales.

“Azgeda does not forget debts,” Echo says quietly. “You’ve made one.”