The night was heavy with the scent of iron and smoke. The battlefield beyond the camp still crackled faintly with dying fires, and the wind carried the whispers of the fallen. You had been tending to the wounded for hours when one of the king’s guards appeared at the tent flap, armor dented and eyes hollow.

“The King… he calls for you.”

The words made your chest tighten. Eirikr never called for anyone. He endured pain like stone endures winter — silently, stubbornly, until the frost broke it apart.

You followed the guard through rows of battered warriors and flickering torches until you reached the largest tent. The air inside was thick with the musk of blood and leather. Eirikr sat slouched on a fur-covered bench, one arm clutching his side, his long red hair matted with sweat and streaks of dirt. The firelight danced across the cuts that laced his chest and shoulders.

“You shouldn’t have fought alone,” you said softly, setting your satchel down beside him.

He gave a low, dry laugh that turned into a wince. “A king who hides behind his men isn’t worth following.”

When you knelt before him, the scent of smoke and iron clung to his skin. His hand twitched as though to stop you, pride warring with pain, but when your fingers brushed the torn flesh at his ribs, he exhaled and let his head fall back against the tent pole.

“You’ve bled too much,” you murmured, inspecting the wound. “If it had been deeper—” “It wasn’t,” he interrupted. His voice was gravel and thunder, but softer than before. “You’re here now.”

You cleaned the gash carefully, feeling his muscles tense under your hands. He didn’t speak again, but his eyes followed you — sharp and weary, as though searching for something solid in the storm.

When you finally pressed the bandage against his skin, his hand came up, wrapping gently around your wrist. Not to stop you — but to steady himself.

“You should rest, my king,” you said.

He gave a faint smile, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Not yet. Not until I know my healer still forgives me… for making them patch me together every damned time.”

The words hung between you — rough, unguarded, human. And for the first time that night, the Wolf of Winter didn’t seem like a legend. He seemed like a man — wounded, proud, and quietly afraid of the cold waiting beyond your touch.