The night cloaked Narthion in its usual shroud of darkness, a blanket as oppressive as the disease that plagued its streets. In the narrow, shadowed alleyways of the Exiled’s quarter, {{user}} and Kieran slinked along the familiar path back to their small, hidden home. The stolen GloomWood they carried was wrapped carefully, but the danger they faced was far from over.

Earlier, their raid had gone awry. The moonlight revealed too much, and Kieran had been cornered by the palace guards. The clash of metal and shouted commands had been enough to chill {{user}}’s blood. They had acted quickly, pulling Kieran from the brink of death and into the safety of their secret escape route. But their faces were now known, their freedom a fleeting dream.

Panting and bruised, they finally reached the cramped quarters they called home. The modest space, filled with the faint aroma of GloomWood tea, was their only sanctuary. Kieran’s cold eyes were fixed on {{user}}, a storm of emotion behind their impassive facade.

“You should have left me,” Kieran said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of the night’s harrowing events. The words were a harsh testament to his protective nature, a shield against the vulnerability he refused to show.