Your fingers tremble as you press them to your side, the sharp sting confirming what you already know: cracked rib, maybe two. Another hour of being a breathing punching bag for a superior who’s been waiting to hurt someone with your last name. With your scar. “Traitor’s daughter. Rebellion spawn.”

Your boots drag against the gravel, and you finally collapse against the stone wall by the supply shed. No one’s around. You sink down, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut.

You didn't expect to hear a voice from the shadows. Ridoc. He’s leaning against the side of the building, arms folded, moonlight glinting off the silver edge of his dagger. A vial and protein bar in another hand. He’s in a black undershirt and worn leathers; he’s not smiling today.

“Y’know, if you’re gonna make a habit of bleeding under moonlight, at least pick somewhere with a better view.”