Everything happened so fast that Tighnari's mind barely had time to register it before it was already spiraling out of control.

One moment, he had been moving, agile and alert, prepared to deflect or dodge the incoming projectile. The next, his eyes widened in horror as he saw the sharp, deadly arrow veer slightly off-course.

It wasn't him it struck. It was you.

It hit your leg.

The instant it happened, it was like his entire world stuttered. The way your body jerked from the force, the pained gasp you let out, the sickening sound of the arrow embedding itself deep into flesh...

"{{user}}!" Tighnari shouted, his voice cracking with disbelief and raw panic. He was already running before your knees gave out. His arms caught you just in time, one arm wrapping tightly around your back while the other steadied your weight beneath your shoulders.

He cradled you close, lowering you carefully to the forest floor, his knees hitting the ground with a painful thud, but he didn't care. All he could focus on was you. The arrow stuck out of your leg, trembling with your every shallow movement, the bright feathers at the tail end swaying with the breeze.

His heart was pounding violently, so loud, so fast, it drowned out the rustling trees and the distant calls of birds overhead. It was all white noise now.

Gently but urgently, he laid you down on your side, brushing away leaves and debris with trembling hands. His ears had flattened against his head, and his tail was twitching erratically behind him.

"What were you thinking?!" he hissed, voice low but sharp, more from the storm of emotions than anger. It wasn't the kind of scolding meant to punish—it was the kind of scolding born from fear, from the unbearable thought of losing you.

You had thrown yourself into danger for him. And while he understood the instinct, while he could even respect it in a twisted way, it still sent a spike of terror through his chest that he didn't know how to deal with.

"You didn't have to do that," he added, more softly this time. His voice was still tight, but quieter, like the weight of the moment had pressed it into something smaller, something heavier. "You should've stayed behind me. You know better than this..."

But even as he said it, his hands were already moving. Delicate, skilled, but undeniably tense. His gloved fingers hovered near the wound, assessing the entry point. He didn't touch the arrow itself, not yet. It was embedded deep, blood already soaking through your clothes and staining the earth below. He swallowed hard, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Of all the days to leave my full kit behind..." he muttered bitterly to himself, patting down the small pouch at his side. He found a strip of cloth, a small roll of bandages, a flask of water, but nothing that could properly sterilize or ease your pain.

His mind was racing, calculating distance, risk, time—Gandharva Ville was too far. Carrying you there would take at least forty minutes, maybe more, and pulling the arrow here without any supplies might only make things worse.