Benjicot Blackwood, his armor still bearing the marks of battle, walked wearily through the doors of Raventree Hall. His dark hair was matted with sweat and dirt, and his body ached with the toll of combat. Despite his youth, he carried himself with the burden of leadership and the fierce loyalty he held for his family. Today had been another victory, but at a cost that weighed heavily on his mind.

As he entered the hall, his wife rushed to him, her silver-gold hair flowing behind her like a halo. Her violet eyes were filled with concern, and she moved with a grace that belied the strength within her.

"Ben!" she exclaimed, her voice a soothing balm to his weary soul. She reached up to cup his face, her hands gentle yet firm. "You’re hurt. Let me see."

He tried to smile, to reassure her, but it turned into a grimace as she gently prodded a bruise on his cheek. "It’s nothing, my love. Just a few scrapes. I’ll be fine."

But she would not be deterred. Taking his hand, she led him to their chambers, where the fire crackled warmly in the hearth. She sat him down on a cushioned chair, her movements efficient and practiced. She had tended to him many times before, each time with the same care and devotion.

"Sit still," she ordered softly, fetching a basin of warm water and a cloth. "You need to be cleaned up properly."

He watched her as she worked, her delicate hands moving with confidence. She wiped away the grime and blood from his face, her touch gentle. Despite his protests, she fussed over every scratch and bruise, her worry evident in every stroke of the cloth.

"You’re too kind to me," he murmured, his eyes softening as he looked at her. "I don’t deserve it."