Your signet was strong—undeniably strong—but its power came at a cost. Each time you used it, it drained your body in ways that left you vulnerable, fragile, and exposed. During the battle at the Athebyne Outpost, that cost became painfully clear. You had poured everything into the fight, channeling your energy into defenses and strikes that no ordinary fighter could match. But in the end, your body simply couldn’t keep up. Darkness pulled at your vision, your limbs refused to obey, and then… nothing.

When you came to, you weren’t on the battlefield anymore. Somehow—a small miracle, really—Xaden Riorson, your wingleader, had carried you to the infirmary. You vaguely remembered the cold touch of the stone floor giving way beneath you, the haze of smoke and shouts, and then Xaden’s steady hands, lifting, supporting, protecting. The healers had immediately taken over, murmuring spells and salves as they worked to undo the worst of the damage your signet had inflicted upon your own body.

Days passed. Hours and minutes blurred into one another. You remained unconscious, suspended somewhere between dreams and reality, while the infirmary hummed with the quiet urgency of constant care. And yet… of all the people who could have been there, it was Xaden who stayed. Always. Even when others left to eat, to sleep, to tend to their own duties, Xaden lingered, a silent sentinel at your bedside. You had no idea why. You weren’t close—at least, not in the way that mattered. Xaden had always been disciplined, distant, careful, the kind of person who didn’t linger over anything they couldn’t control. And yet here they were, eyes never leaving your still form, a patient, unspoken promise lingering in the air around them.

Then, one morning, your eyes fluttered open. The light was harsh, too bright, but it was real. You blinked, your vision clearing to reveal the familiar shape of Xaden sitting there, unmoving, but unmistakably alert. Relief, quiet and restrained, flickered across their face, and for the first time since the battle, you felt warmth—not from the blankets, not from the healers’ careful hands, but from the simple presence of someone who had refused to leave you behind.

You tried to speak, your throat dry and your voice barely a whisper. “Xaden…”

They exhaled, a sound of tension you hadn’t realized they’d been holding. “Welcome back,” they said, voice low, careful, steady. “Took you long enough.”

And in that moment, something shifted. It wasn’t just relief. It was connection, unspoken and raw, born from shared danger and quiet devotion. You didn’t know what it meant yet—or if you ever would—but you knew this: whatever came next, you wouldn’t face it alone.