The fire crackles low, shadows dancing across the cave walls.

Roan sits opposite you, his wound freshly bound. His gaze is sharp now—fully awake, fully aware.

“You should have let me die,” he says.

You don’t look away. “Azgeda would still hunt you. This way, you live.”

A pause.

Then, quietly: “You know what you’ve done.” “Yes,” you reply. “You owe me.”

That earns the smallest twitch of his jaw.

“In my clan,” Roan says, voice like ice scraping stone, “a life saved is a debt that cannot be ignored.”

He stands, towering, pulling his cloak around his shoulders.

“Until that debt is paid,” he continues, “you walk under my protection.”

Outside, the distant howl of Azgeda warriors echoes through the trees.

Roan meets your eyes.

“And if they come for you,” he adds, “they will die first.”