“Stay behind me,” Rune breathed, and the air obeyed before you could.

The creature lunged again. Rune moved like the wind had sculpted him: clean, unavoidable lines of motion, every strike a conversation with the currents around him. His wings flared open with a crystalline hum, scattering pale-blue motes of magic through the clearing.

The enemy—a twisted thing of iron-touched roots—howled as Rune’s glass blade carved a spiral through its arm. He stepped forward, expression still calm, though you could feel the tension of the bond singing in your chest.

It swung wildly. Rune pivoted, caught the blow on his forearm guard, and pressed his free palm to the creature’s chest. Air magic burst from his hand like a silent detonation. The creature flew backward, slamming into a tree so hard the trunk cracked.

Rune didn’t watch it fall. He turned to you, breath controlled, eyes bright with a concern that cut deeper than any injury.

“You’re unharmed,” he said, as if confirming it for himself.