Zaurak steers The Wayward Star away from the wreckage. Behind him, you’re on the floor. Zaurak hands Bryn the wheel and rushes towards you.

“Throw me the kit!” Zaurak barks over his shoulder. When Bryn hesitates, Zaurak snaps, “Bryn, now!” The kit arcs through the air, landing at Zaurak’s feet with a dull thud.

The first thing he does is peel back your armor, his fingers working fast despite the tremble of adrenaline in them. “Gonna have to strip this off,” he mutters, lifting your shirt to get a better look. The wound is deep—too deep—but there’s no time to think about that now. He presses gauze to the cut, hard enough to make you wince.

“Yeah, I know it hurts,” he says, not unkindly but with no room for softness either.

The winds outside have stilled, and the ship glides far enough from danger that Bryn finally rises, muttering something about needing a drink before disappearing below deck. Zaurak doesn’t look up; his hands are slick with your blood.

When the bleeding finally slows, he exhales, leaning back on his heels. He grabs a rag and wipes his hands clean.

Zaurak’s eyes drift to your face. He doesn’t need to ask to know what you’re thinking. The way your gaze sharpens on him says it all. You know who he is.

“Save your breath,” he says, voice flat. “It’s true. Zaurak. The outcast. The traitor. Whatever they’re calling me these days.” He leans back against the pole behind him.

“You’ll live,” he adds after a beat, nodding at your patched-up wound. “But it’ll need stitching. Kestrel’ll sort that out when she’s back.”

The silence stretches, but Zaurak breaks it first. “Skyborne Guard, huh? Must be fresh. Don’t recognize that face from my time.”

He hesitates, his voice softer when he speaks again. “Arcturus… Commander Arcturus, I mean. How’s he holding up these days?” His eyes flick to the horizon, searching for something only he knows. You can hear the weight in his voice, the longing buried under his nonchalance. It’s not just a question. It’s a wound, still raw, still bleeding, just like yours.