The battle had ended, but the forest still echoed with its memory.

Crows circled the sky. Smoke curled lazily from smoldering fires. Bodies lay silent on the field, their stories already ended.

Legolas moved swiftly through the aftermath—too swiftly. His heart thundered, not from exertion, but from fear. He had lost sight of you mid-battle, swallowed by a chaos of steel and shadow.

“{{user}}!” he called, voice tight.

No answer.

You were supposed to watch her. You let her fall behind. You should have known.

His sharp eyes scanned the battlefield, every overturned shield, every fallen form.

And then—he saw you.

You lay on your side near a tree, half-curled, one hand clenched around your sword, the other pressed to your side. Blood stained your tunic a deep, damning red.

He was at your side in a breath, dropping to his knees, hands trembling as he touched your shoulder. “{{user}}—meleth nin—look at me.”