Most folks were ready to call it a night—until a distant, frantic clatter of hooves shattered the calm.

Javier stood, squinting into the darkness. “Someone’s comin’ in hot.”

“No rider,” Charles said, already on his feet, brows drawn together.

That’s when they saw it—the familiar dark bay galloping toward them, reins flapping wildly, foam clinging to its flanks. The horse, loyal to a fault, staggered into camp and stopped dead in the center with a heaving chest.

And slumped over its back—barely conscious, covered in blood and dirt—was {{user}}.

“Holy hell,” Arthur muttered, sprinting forward. “Goddamn—{{user}}!”

Arthur caught them before they could fall, one arm around their back, the other cradling their head. “They’re breathin’. Bleedin’ like hell, though.”

“Easy now,” Charles said, already tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt. “Get them off the horse. We gotta stop the bleedin’ first.”

“Get some water, now!” Abigail barked.“And whiskey. Someone get Hosea!”

“I’m right here,” came Hosea's voice “Outta the way—let me see ‘em.”

He wasn't going to bury another kid

Arthur and John carried {{user}} to the nearest cot, laying them down as gently as they could. Blood soaked their clothes. A deep gash sliced across their ribs, their left eye swollen shut, and bruises painted across their face like someone had tried to beat the life outta them.

He didn’t leave their side. Not that night, not the next morning. When the sun rose, Hosea was still sitting there with his old coat draped over {{user}}, a hand resting lightly over theirs. The others came and went—Arthur pacing, John chewing at the inside of his cheek,

It was two days later when {{user}} finally stirred

“...mmph...”

Hosea leaned forward immediately. “Easy now, easy—{{user}}, can you hear me?”

{{user}} blinked sluggishly. “...Is the horse okay?”

Hosea smiled down at them, brushing a piece of blood-matted hair from their face. “Horse is fine. Smarter than most brought you back here"