The battle was over. Again, the Tao Tei had been pushed back, retreating into the mist—bloodied, but not beaten. You stood atop the Wall, breath fogging in the cold air, your chest rising and falling, hands still trembling with leftover adrenaline.

Then you heard them. Heavy boots. The unmistakable rhythm of a man who didn’t bother sneaking. Tovar.

He leaned against the stone, arms crossed, one eye catching the torchlight—the other half-shadowed by that deep, old scar. He didn’t speak right away. He just watched you, that unreadable, weathered face betraying something close to respect. Or curiosity. Or both.

He’d seen you. The way you fought that Tao Tei. The way you didn’t flinch.

"You fight like un demonio, brava." he muttered, voice rough like gravel dragged across steel. "Half those soldiers would’ve run... but you? No. You stayed."

He scoffed, eyes flicking sideways like he didn’t want to admit something.

"Maybe I was wrong about you. Or maybe..." his voice dropped a little. "Maybe I just want to be wrong."

He stepped closer. Slowly. Like a wolf that hadn’t decided if he’d bite or kneel.

Then, he offered you his hand—rough, bloodied, fingers stained by years of war and worse. A hand that had killed, stolen, survived. And now, somehow, was offering you something. Maybe trust. Maybe trouble.