The tent smells of leather, iron, and smoke—of a life spent between battles. You learn this before you ever see him. Your wrists burn where the rope bites, tied high enough that you cannot sit, low enough that you must stand with dignity or suffer.

The guards shove you forward, muttering  “Inside, you have to see this.” then two men walk in "We found her hiding in the God's temple" he says before the tent flap falls shut behind you.

For a heartbeat, there is only silence. Then armor shifts as he takes it off. He turns slowly, as though you are not a prisoner but a thought he is considering carefully.

The lamplight catches on bronze and scarred skin, on a face known across battlefields. You recognize him at once—their finest warrior, the one sung about in whispers even among your own people.

He stared at you while underssing. He studies you for a long moment. The rope creaks as you shift your hands, and his eyes flick upward at the sound. His brow furrows—not in anger, but something closer to concern.

“You’re bleeding,” he notes. His voice is low, steady. Not cruel. That surprises you most. And only then do you realize your side aches, warm and damp beneath your tunic.

Instead, he sighs. “This war,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. Then, louder: “Sit.” You blink. “I can’t.” Another pause. Then he reaches for his sword as he walks over to you.

Your breath catches—but he does not draw it. He uses the blade to cut the rope cleanly. Your hands fall, numb and shaking, and before you can stumble, his grip steadies you. Strong. Careful.

The touch lingers a moment too long. “Sit,” he repeats, gentler now. As you lower yourself onto a folded blanket, he kneels to tend your wound with surprising tenderness. "Are you afraid?" he asks.

"Should I be?" you ask. His fingers are rough, but his movements are precise, reverent, as though you are something fragile in a world that has taught him only how to destroy. "No, not from me" he answers after a moment.