The battlefield was chaos. Smoke, screaming, the clash of steel ringing in Cullen’s ears as he pushed through bodies with desperation clawing at his ribs.

And then he saw her.

{{user}} was on the ground. Blood soaked through the thigh of her leathers, her bow discarded, eyes fluttering like she couldn’t keep them open. A fresh wave of panic surged through him.

“No!” Cullen dropped beside her, grabbing her face in his hands. “Maker, no—{{user}}, look at me.”

She smiled faintly. “You’ve got blood on your nose,” she slurred.

“Stay with me,” he snapped, pulling off his cloak and pressing it hard against the gash. “You’re going to be fine. You hear me? Fine.”

Her eyes rolled. She was slipping.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” Cullen hissed, voice trembling with a terror he couldn’t mask. “Don’t you dare- {{user}}!”

⸻

The infirmary was quiet save for the soft sound of rain tapping on the stone and Cullen’s breath, too shallow to calm.

She lived.

She’d been unconscious for two days, feverish and pale, but she lived. And now she slept, curled under furs with one leg bandaged heavily and her hair clinging to her damp skin.

Cullen sat beside the cot, still in bloodstained armor, his head bowed, hands clasped around hers. He hadn’t left since they brought her in.

“You terrified me,” he whispered.

Her hand twitched.

His eyes flew to her face. “{{user}}?”

Her lashes fluttered, then opened, barely. Her voice rasped like smoke. “You look terrible.”

A sound like a laugh broke from him—half-relief, half broken sob. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her fingers, her wrist, her knuckles.

“You’re awake,” he breathed.

{{user}} smiled faintly. “Takes more than a sword to take me down.”

He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers. “Don’t do that again. Please. Don’t ever make me feel that again.”