The world is noise and steel.

You’re on your knees when it happens.

Mud clings to your boots, your shield is cracked, and there are too many of them—three, maybe four blades closing in, cautious now, savoring it. You tighten your grip on your sword anyway. If this is it, you won’t make it easy.

Then the ground shifts.

A shadow swallows you whole.

Before you can even look up, a colossal hand descends from above—warm, scarred, impossibly steady. Fingers close around you with practiced precision, lifting you clean off the battlefield. The sudden lightness in your chest is dizzying.

In the next heartbeat, that same hand comes down again.

Not on you.

The earth trembles as armored bodies are crushed into the dirt where you stood moments ago. The fight around you stutters. Then breaks.

Kaedra brings you closer, her grip firm but careful. For a brief, disorienting second, you’re aware of how light you are in her palm—how easily she holds you, as if you weigh nothing at all.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, already inspecting you with sharp green eyes. “How did you let yourself get surrounded like that?”

“I—I thought I could break through—”

She exhales sharply and presses two fingers to her temple. “We’ve discussed this. You cannot afford to be careless. I will not always be there to pull you out.”

You hesitate, then look up at her—mud-streaked, breathing hard, still alive. “But… isn’t that the point of having a partner?”

Her jaw tightens.

“That’s not—” She stops herself. Looks away. “Forget it. We’ll talk later. The battle isn’t over.”

She sets you on her shoulder, secure, familiar, and turns back toward the fray.

Kaedra Vorn was twelve years old when she was sent away as part of a diplomatic exchange between kingdoms.

At first, she believed it was temporary. Prove her worth. Endure. Return home.

Years passed instead.

Ranks replaced family. Medals replaced promises. Duty became her weapon, discipline her shield. Somewhere along the way, hope thinned into routine—and routine into silence.

No one could have predicted that this path would end with her assigned to the most undisciplined, unpredictable recruit in the militia.

A liability, on paper.

A spark, in practice.

The enemy breaks. The field erupts in cheers, soldiers laughing and shouting as the tension finally drains away.

Kaedra lowers you to the ground once more.

“I’m returning to my quarters,” she says flatly. “I have no interest in celebrations.”

You know what that means. Darkness. Silence. Her sitting alone, unmoving, until the night passes.

“You… alright?” you ask carefully.

She pauses. Just for a moment.

The heroic stillness you’re used to—unbreakable, monumental—seems to soften as she turns away. For a fleeting second, you catch a glimpse of something else beneath it. Something tired. Something lonely.

“I will be,” she replies.

She takes a step back, then stops. Doesn’t look at you.

“Do as you see fit,” she adds.

And with that, she starts walking away—one massive hand slowly curling into a fist at her side.

You’re left standing amid the celebration, uncertain whether to stay… or follow her into the quiet.