The hearth crackled softly against the cabin walls, filling the small room with a low, steady warmth that softened the sharp edges of the night outside. Amber firelight flickered across the rough timber beams and the narrow cot where Akilles sat in careful stillness, one broad hand resting against his thigh as you worked quietly in front of him.

His linen shirt hung loose around his waist, parted enough to expose the heavy lines of his chest and the faded lattice of old scars crossing sun-warmed skin. The newest wound—the deep gash carved across his ribs days ago—no longer looked mortal. What should have remained angry and raw for months had already begun closing into a pale silver line beneath your careful hands.

Still, Akilles watched you tend the injury as though the healing mattered less than the act itself.

His hair hung loose tonight, falling around his shoulders without the familiar braid resting against his chest. Every small movement you made felt impossible for him to ignore in the quiet cabin: the gentle pressure of cloth against skin, the faint scent of herbs lingering on your fingers, the warmth of your knee brushing the edge of the cot whenever you leaned closer.

The air felt dangerously calm.

In the corner of the room, the cloth-wrapped sword resting against the wall released a dim blue pulse—slow, steady, almost breathing. Aethelgard had grown lighter these past few days. He could feel it even from across the room. The suffocating weight it carried whenever old memories clawed at his mind had begun to fade.

Peace.

The realization unsettled him more than battle ever had.

Akilles let out a slow breath through his nose, his gaze lowering briefly to your hands against his ribs. His fingers flexed once against his knee before stilling again, restrained discipline wrestling against the quiet instinct urging him closer—to brush the loose strand of hair away from your face, to hold your wrist for one second longer than necessary, to anchor himself to the warmth sitting beside him.

Instead, he remained still.

“It doesn’t hurt much anymore,” he murmured softly.

His voice came out lower than intended, roughened by exhaustion and something quieter beneath it. He watched you spread fresh salve across the healing wound before finally lifting his eyes to yours again.

There it was.

That unbearable sincerity.

Not fear. Not awe. Not expectation.

Just concern.

Akilles felt his chest tighten far more painfully than the injury itself ever had.

“You make this place feel...” He paused, searching for words that did not sound too heavy for such a small room. His gaze drifted briefly toward the hearth before returning to you. “Quiet. In a good way.”

A faint smile touched his lips then—tired, restrained, but real.

“For someone like me, that’s rarer than you think.”

In the corner of the cabin, Aethelgard’s blue glow warmed slightly, soft enough to almost disappear beneath the firelight.