Smoke still hung thick in the air above the charred ruins of the village. The stench of blood, fire, and death clung to {{user}} clothes. He sat with his back to a crumbling stone wall, breath steady but shallow, his left hand pressed firmly to the gash along his ribs. Blood seeped between his fingers, hot and slick. The wound was deep but not fatal—at least, not if he saw to it soon.

He hadn’t meant to be here. Just another nameless road, another forgotten settlement. Yet when the riders came, cutting down anyone who couldn’t flee fast enough, he had drawn his sword. Instinct, perhaps. Or maybe some old, dying part of him still clung to the notion that a warrior’s duty did not end with exile.

Foolish.

{{user}} exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. He had stopped the bleeding for now, but he needed to stitch it—except his hands, steady in battle, now trembled with exhaustion.

Footsteps. Light, careful. Not the tread of a scavenger. Gavran’s hand went to his knife, but before he could draw it, a voice reached him.

“You’re hurt.”

His gaze flicked upward. A young woman stood a few paces away Her cloak was dusted with ash, her tunic torn at the hem. Golden hair tumbled over her shoulders in waves, a few strands plastered to her cheek by sweat and soot.

"Let me help," the strange added, her voice gentle and kind.