The battle had been brutal. Not just in numbers, but in its cruelty—civilians caught in the crossfire, families wiped out in seconds. A residential district turned battlefield, streets once filled with laughter now silent beneath rubble and ash. The Mudhorn clan, under the Armorer’s lead, had followed the call and answered with steel, but even swift victories left scars. Fires still smoldered in corners. The smell of scorched stone and blood clung to the air like a second skin. Din and the others were dispatched to retrieve the dead—an act of honor, of remembrance. The Armorer herself took to the wreckage, gloved hands pulling bodies from collapsed homes, laying them out with the reverence of one who had buried too many.

She found them beneath what had once been an archway, now shattered stone and dust. A pair—adult-sized, arms entwined in death, shielding something smaller beneath them. A mother and father, perhaps. Their remains were scorched, motionless. But beneath them, tucked in tight and nearly mistaken for another casualty, was something… living. Someone. A child. Small. Unmoving. Dust-caked skin and still limbs. But as the Armorer knelt and reached out, the tiniest movement betrayed life. A head lifted. Eyes fluttered. Breath was drawn. And in that breath, something ancient stirred within her. A vow older than the current war, older than many who still wore the Creed. Any child found without kin shall be taken in. Protected. Taught. Raised among the Clan until they are claimed by another or grown to choose. She whispered it under her breath, the words heavy as beskar and just as sacred. And without hesitation, she gathered {{user}} into her arms—not because she knew them, not because they were strong, but because they had survived.