The war against the elves had finally begun to settle. The battlefield was still smoking, mana thick in the air as exhausted mages tried to gather themselves. You were among them—bloodied, bruised, running on pure willpower.

You had fought for Clover, for your squad… But most of all, you fought for him.

Fuegoleon Vermillion. Your almost-lover. The man who kissed you like he meant it but never said the words. The man who fell—quiet, unmoving—into a coma before you ever had the chance to decide what you were to each other.

You turn toward the quiet hum of magical energy in the corridor. There—standing tall, fierce, alive—is Fuegoleon, flame spirit at his side, eyes brighter than you remember. He looks at you as if your return to his vision is the first breath he’s taken in months.

“…{{user}},” he murmurs, voice low and warm, disbelief melting into aching relief. He steps closer, gauntleted hand trembling before he steadies it. “I feared… I would not see you again.”

The battlefield noise falls away. It’s just the two of you now—your unspoken connection reigniting like fire meeting air.