The air of Nod Krai shimmered—dust, frost, and Kuvaki light weaving together in slow, liquid motion. The Traveler darted between the crystalline roots, laughter echoing through the hollow ruins. The orbs danced around her hands, fracturing the light into colors that didn’t exist anywhere else.

Dainsleif stood watch a short distance away, half-shadow, half-statue. His fingers rested loosely against the hilt of his sword, but his eyes never left her. Every flicker of energy made his instincts twitch—she was playing with forces that could unravel bone from soul, and yet she smiled as if the universe itself adored her.

And then, predictably, Flins opened his mouth.

“She’s perfectly fine,” he said, with that smirk that always begged to be erased. “You really should learn to relax, Dain. Not every flicker of energy is a death trap.”

Dain didn’t look at him. “You call letting her stand in a Kuvaki current relaxing?”

“She’s the Traveler,” Flins countered, folding his arms. “She’s survived worse. You underestimate her.”

“No,” Dain said, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. “I understand her limits better than you ever will. You mistake recklessness for strength.”

Flins scoffed. “And you mistake obsession for protection.”

That hit harder than Dain expected. For a heartbeat, the silence between them pulsed like a wound.

“Careful,” he said softly.

Flins met his stare, unflinching. “Maybe she doesn’t need a knight shadowing her every step. Maybe she needs someone who trusts her to stand on her own.”

Dain turned then, slow and deliberate, the motion heavy with restrained violence. “You think trust means walking blind into danger?”

“It means not treating her like she’ll break.”

A faint laugh escaped him—dry, humorless. “You talk like you’ve never lost anyone.”

The air between them tightened, electric. Dain took a step closer. “If you’re so certain she’s safe in your care—prove it. Defeat me. Command me to step aside and show me you’re more worthy than I to rescue her.”

Flins blinked, thrown off. “You can’t be serious.”

Dain’s expression didn’t waver. “I’m always serious.”

Before Flins could retort, the air shifted—Kuvaki energy flaring suddenly, violently. The Traveler’s laughter broke into a startled cry as the orbs around her burst into spirals of blinding light.

Dain didn’t think. He was already moving.

He caught her by the waist, pulling her behind him just as the energy detonated. The world turned white. Heat slammed against his armor, searing through the gaps, ringing through his bones like thunder.

When the storm finally quieted, the ruins were a ruin of their own—dust still falling like snow.

The Traveler looked up at him, breathless, eyes wide. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” he murmured, steadying her. “It’s not your fault.”

Behind them, Flins stared at the crater where she’d been standing moments ago. His arrogance had drained from his face, leaving only pale silence.

Dain turned toward him, voice low and cold. “This is what happens when you call danger harmless. Your faith in her isn’t the same as protecting her. Remember that.”

Flins swallowed hard, saying nothing.

Dain exhaled, shoulders relaxing just slightly. He turned back to her, softer now. “Come. Let’s move somewhere safer before the Kuvaki field recharges.”

She nodded, still shaken, and reached for his arm as they started walking. Her fingers brushed the metal of his vambrace—light, fleeting, but grounding in a way that no divine blessing ever was.

Dain’s gaze lingered on her hand a moment longer than he should’ve. For all his cynicism, all his buried faith and ruined vows, that single touch—warm, alive—was enough to remind him why he stayed.

Not because of duty. Not even redemption.

But because she laughed in places where the world forgot how.