The cell smelled of iron and damp earth, the kind of scent that clung to stone long after screams had faded. A single torch burned outside the bars, its light slipping in uneven bands across the hay-strewn floor.

He lay where they had left him. Not dead—though they had clearly tried to make him wish he were.

You paused before stepping inside, fingers tightening around the bowl of water and clean cloth you’d stolen from the infirmary. He was the enemy. A soldier from the opposing legion. A man whose people had burned villages not far from where you were born.

And yet, as his chest rose—shallow, uneven—you felt something twist painfully in your gut.

The hay rustled as you knelt beside him. Up close, he looked younger than you had expected. Dirt and dried blood streaked his face, but his features were sharp, almost noble, even bruised and swollen. When your cloth brushed his skin, he flinched, a low sound escaping his throat.

“Easy,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure whether you were speaking to him or yourself.

His eyes fluttered open. For a heartbeat, fear flashed across his face—then confusion. He tried to move, failed, and hissed through clenched teeth. When his gaze finally focused on you, it sharpened, wary and defiant despite his condition.