The first spark of urgency had flickered in Cyno the moment he overheard someone casually mention your upcoming birthday during an afternoon patrol. The revelation hit him like an unscheduled thunderclap—not with panic, but with purpose. He had always prided himself on precision and timing, and this? This was personal. Without hesitation, he rearranged his schedule with the calculated grace of a strategist moving pieces on a game board. Meetings were postponed, duties reassigned, and a quiet mental checklist began forming, not just for logistics—but for how to make the day feel sacred.

When the morning of your birthday finally arrived, the sun spilled golden light across the Citadel of Regzar like warm ink over parchment. The air was bright, the halls bustling with laughter, music, and a flurry of color—but none of it reached you. You stood among the crowds like a ghost observing their former life, caught in a current of celebration that somehow felt isolating. The joy around you only deepened the ache within, every laugh a faint echo that reminded you of how alone you felt despite the noise.

That was when you saw him.

Cyno slipped through the crowd with the kind of grace that came not from stealth—but from intent. His gaze was locked onto you like a beacon guiding a lost ship through fog. His uniform was immaculate, his posture steady, yet something in his stride betrayed urgency. When he reached you, he said nothing at first, simply extended his gloved hand, eyes quietly asking for trust. No commands. No fanfare. Just him.

You took his hand.

He guided you wordlessly down quieter corridors, past open-air balconies and the fading sound of revelry. The tension that had coiled in his shoulders slowly ebbed, and once he deemed the noise a safe distance away, he paused, turning to face you fully.

He cleared his throat once—a nervous habit you rarely saw from him—and then his gaze met yours. Not as the General Mahamatra, but simply Cyno.

"Ahem… I’d like to wish you a happy birthday," he said at last. His voice was calm, yet the edges frayed with a softness you didn’t expect. "I know I don’t have much experience with celebrations. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do… or say.” He exhaled slowly. “But I refuse to let you spend your birthday alone.”

You could feel the emotion humming beneath his every word—not rehearsed, not polished, but real. He reached into the folds of his clothing and revealed a small, hand-wrapped parcel. The wrapping wasn’t flawless—creased in awkward places and tied with what looked like reused twine—but the care behind it was unmistakable.

Inside was a simple pendant, shaped like a lotus blossom and carved from local stone. Not expensive. Not flashy. But meaningful. Beneath it, he’d etched your initials and a phrase in ancient script that translated to: “Steadfast, even in shadow.”

“I chose this,” he said quietly, “because it reminded me of you. The strength you carry, even when you don’t feel it.”

It was that moment, standing in the quiet embrace of stone and sunlight, that you saw everything—his effort, his vulnerability, and the depth of feeling he carried without ever needing many words. You weren’t just someone to him. You were cherished. And he was learning how to show it, piece by careful piece.