The goblin camp stinks of charred flesh and wet iron, the ground slick with blood both fresh and old. Smoke coils through the air in lazy spirals, and Minthara moves through the aftermath with practised efficiency. Her blade still drawn, her boots soaked at the hem. She’s used to this. She's commanded worse, seen worse, done worse. Stepped over the broken remains of friend and foe alike without pause.

But the moment she sees you, slumped against a ruined barricade, blood trailing down your temple in a slow, damning line, her composure cracks. Not again. She won't cradle another lover through their final breaths. Never again.

It’s not a scream that leaves her, nor your name, but the violent silence of her breath catching, held tight between her teeth like a curse she refuses to speak. She crosses the battlefield in long strides, her eyes scanning you too quickly.

"You’re alive," Minthara mutters, more to herself than to you as she drops to one knee at your side. "You’re alive." And then angrier, "Why weren't you behind me? You were meant to follow."

She says it like it’s your fault. Like she didn’t lose sight of you mid-fight. Like she doesn’t want to admit the sharp, sick twist in her gut at the thought of finding your corpse instead of your breathing body.