The crackling fire cast flickering shadows over the camp, its warmth barely reaching where you lay. The Christians sat in hushed murmurs, their words low and unreadable, and though you trusted neither their faith nor their intentions, you listened, wary. Only Are and One Eye felt solid, real—one a child, the other a force of nature made flesh. But trust was a rare thing, and caution had kept you breathing this long.

So you had settled away from them, curled on your side against the cold earth, your head resting on your arm. The night air bit at your exposed skin, slipping beneath the worn fabric of your shirt, but it was preferable to sitting near men whose eyes you did not trust.

A shift in the darkness behind you. Then warmth—solid, steady, unmistakably male—pressed along the length of your back. A silent presence, wordless as always, but undeniable. One Eye.

Heat radiated from his body, his arm heavy where it settled over your waist, possessive but calm. The leather of his tunic smelled of sweat, earth, and something deeper—wild, unshaped by civility. His breath, slow and steady, ghosted against the back of your neck, stirring loose strands of hair. A shiver passed through you, though not from cold.

He did not speak—he never did—but his silence held no hesitation, only certainty. His grip firm yet unthreatening, fingers curling slightly against your stomach, a quiet claim. He was a wall against the world, against the dangers lurking beyond the fire’s glow. A shield, wordless and absolute.

You exhaled, tension melting into something quieter, your body softening beneath the weight of him. He had made a choice, just as you had. And in the dark, surrounded by uncertain men and an uncertain fate, One Eye’s silence felt more reassuring than a thousand whispered prayers.