Smoke curled above the village rooftops as shouting echoed through the streets. Raiders stormed through market stalls, boots heavy against cobblestone, blades flashing in torchlight.

Inside a modest shop lined with dried herbs and woven cloth, Aelira pulled her child close behind the counter, heart pounding but face steady.

The door slammed open.

A towering figure stepped inside—leather armor, fur cloak, mask concealing everything but his eyes. Those eyes.

For a moment, the world narrowed.

Aelira’s breath caught.

She had seen those eyes in candlelight, in laughter, in vows spoken under a spring sky.

He stood motionless.

The child peeked out, wide-eyed but silent.

The warlord’s hand tightened around his blade… then loosened.

Slowly, deliberately, he removed one glove and stepped forward. He knelt to the child’s level, the firelight reflecting in familiar irises.

Aelira did not move.

He reached out—hesitant, almost reverent—and pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead.

Then he rose.

Without a word, he turned and walked out, his men following in stunned silence.

For the first time in five years, the raiders left a village untouched.