The storm had passed, but the air still smelled of ozone and blood.

You sat on the edge of the collapsed structure, your shoulder wrapped in makeshift bandages, watching as the grey clouds drifted slowly above the ruins of the battlefield. The silence was eerie… but not empty.

Behind you, soft footsteps.

Phrolova.

Her expression was unreadable, as always—icy yet serene, a face carved by restraint. But her eyes, always flickering with that Luna-light glow, faltered when they landed on your wound.

You raised a hand to wave her off. “I’m fine. Just a scratch.”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she crouched down before you, her gloved hands gently adjusting the torn bandage on your arm. She didn’t speak until the silence was nearly unbearable.

“You shouldn’t have gone back for me.”