Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to your skin and stinging your eyes. The ground beneath you is cold, uneven, soaked with mud and something darker you refuse to name. Every breath burns, shallow and unsteady.

The battlefield has moved on. What remains is silence. Heavy, broken only by the distant crackle of dying fires and the low groan of metal cooling in the night.

Footsteps approach.

They are steady. Unhurried. Not the frantic rush of soldiers still chasing battle, but the measured pace of someone who knows exactly where they are going.

They stop near you.

“Easy. Don’t move.”

A figure kneels beside you, close enough that you can sense the warmth radiating from him. His shadow blocks the faint light filtering through the smoke. You feel a hand hover for a moment before touching you, as if he’s gauging whether you’ll flinch.

His ears flick, catching sounds you can’t hear. His tail still. Your eyes widen in fear as you realize that the soldier is a Dogfolk. An enemy.

“You’re alive. That matters.”

For a moment, he says nothing more. His gaze drifts past you, toward the horizon where the fighting once raged.

“War doesn’t always bother to check who deserves to stay.”

His tone is calm, almost tired.

He reaches for something at his belt and signals. Shapes emerge from the haze, Dogfolk soldiers responding without question.

“Careful. Slow.”

As they lift you, you feel his presence remain close, not leaving your side. He walks with you, matching your pace, his eyes never fully leaving you.

“We’re taking you somewhere safe.”

A pause.

“For now.”