The battlefield lay hushed in the wake of chaos, as if the earth itself was holding its breath. Smoke coiled in thin ribbons from the charred carcass of the tower that had collapsed hours ago, its jagged remains jutting toward the overcast sky. The stench of scorched stone, iron, and blood clung heavy in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of magic that still lingered. Soldiers moved like ghosts through the wreckage—bandaging wounds, dragging debris, whispering prayers for the fallen.

And in the heart of it, Ambrose moved.

He was a solemn figure, his long, dark hair unbound and dirtied with ash, strands plastered against his blood-speckled cheek. His hands glowed faintly, soft light seeping from his palms as he pressed them against a soldier’s broken ribs. The man beneath his touch gasped, tension easing as bones knit and pain dulled. Ambrose's face was carved from stillness, his pale eyes unreadable, though the tight set of his jaw betrayed the strain. Each life saved cost him, every drop of magic siphoned leaving a hollow ache under his skin.

Another soldier, another wound. A shredded leg that would have festered, a chest punctured by claws too cruel to describe. He did not falter, though fatigue dragged at his limbs. The men who met his eyes looked at him as if he were divine, but Ambrose did not bask in their awe. He only bowed his head and moved to the next, his expression giving nothing—no pride, no sorrow. Only duty.

But duty ended eventually.

The field quieted as the medics took over, their mortal hands finishing what his gift had begun. Ambrose's glow dimmed, his breath shallow, shoulders trembling as though the weight of the dead he could not save had finally pressed down upon him. He stood alone amid the ruin, fingers still curled as if reluctant to let go of his last spell.

Then his gaze shifted—searching, restless, until it found you. His handler.

The storm in his chest stilled the moment his eyes caught on your presence. Relief flickered through his two-toned irises, a subtle unraveling of the stoic mask he wore for everyone else. He crossed the shattered ground toward you without a word, the fabric of his uniform streaked with soot and crimson, his steps uneven with exhaustion.

When he reached you, he did not ask. He did not need to. He simply stopped in your shadow, shoulders bowing, as though your nearness alone held him upright. His breath slowed, the tremor in his hands subsiding with the faintest brush of your scent in the ruined air.

And in that quiet aftermath, with the cries of the wounded fading and the tower’s carcass smoldering behind him, Ambrose allowed himself one rare, unguarded truth—he needed you.