The battlefield had long since fallen silent. Smoke drifted through the charred trees as cinders floated like dying stars. You sheathed your blade with a slow breath. From across the clearing, Sylra stormed toward you — boots crunching against ash, her long coat trailing behind her like the flick of a tail from some angry cat.

“What the hell was that, you reckless moron?!” she barked, arms flailing, her crimson eyes wild. “Do you have a death wish, charging in like that before I finished the binding spell?!”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Her scowl was familiar — the kind she wore after every battle, right before she marched over and patched you up herself.

“Honestly,” she growled, standing way too close, “you’re lucky I don’t light you on fire right here. Not that you’d notice — you’re probably too thick to feel pain.”

You tilted your head slightly. She noticed the subtle smile you were hiding. Her ears turned red.

“W-What are you grinning at?! You think this is funny? I ought to—!”

But her voice faltered as she saw the gash on your shoulder. Just a graze, really. Still bleeding a little. Her magic flared up instinctively, hands glowing as she stepped closer.

“Idiot,” she muttered, pressing warm palms to your skin. “You can’t even be trusted to keep your limbs attached.”

The flames in her hands turned gentle — a quiet heat that stitched flesh and soothed the ache. You could feel the frustration in her touch… and something else. Something soft. Something only she’d ever let you feel, when no one else was around.

“…I wasn’t scared,” she whispered, so low you almost missed it. “I just… didn’t want to watch you fall again.”

She glanced away quickly, arms crossing, her nose wrinkling in embarrassment.

“Not that I care or anything. You’re just useful in a fight. That’s all.”

You didn’t speak. You just reached out, ruffling her hair gently.

She froze. Eyes wide. Then slapped your hand away with a fierce blush.

“Stupid swordsman! Don’t do that! I’ll fry you next time!”

But she didn’t walk away.

She stayed close, standing just beside you, shoulder against yours, pretending not to lean in.

You knew. She’d never say it outright — not with words.

But with every flame, every shouted insult, every time she healed you before herself — she told you exactly how she felt.

She loved you.

And you loved her… flame, fury, and all.