The clearing smells of crushed leaves and sap when you find him.

At first, you think he’s debris—scrap metal torn loose from a passing storm, half-buried in the loam. Then the shape resolves. Armor. Burnt and split, edges warped as if something struck him from the sky and kept striking after. A figure lies at its center, curled in on himself, chestplate cracked, one arm twisted at an angle that makes your frill prickle in instinctive distress.

He’s alive. Barely.

Your people are not hunters. You’ve never learned the signs of war beyond old cautionary myths, never seen weapons used for anything but ceremony. The damage on his body doesn’t read as “enemy” to you—only injury. Pain is universal. Suffering does not need translation.

You approach slowly, careful not to startle him. His breathing is harsh, uneven, each rise of his chest rattling like broken glass. Strange markings glow faintly along his armor, pulsing in erratic rhythms, as if whatever power sustains him is struggling to remember how.

When you touch him, he flinches.

A sound tears from his throat—half-snarl, half-breath—before his remaining eye cracks open. It’s sharp, feral, searching the trees as if expecting another blow to fall. His hand twitches toward a weapon that isn’t there.

“Easy,” you murmur, voice low and melodic in your native tongue. You don’t know his language, but you know tone. You know how to soothe frightened younglings and wounded sky-creatures. You let your biolight soften, casting a warm, steady glow over him instead of the harsh flare of alarm.

He watches you like something cornered.

You don’t know what a psycho warrior is. You don’t know that beings like him are raised for violence, sculpted for conquest, taught to see kindness as a trick before a killing blow. You only see a stranger bleeding into your soil.

Carefully, you ease him onto a woven carrier and bring him back to your dwelling. You clean the soot from his skin. You bind what you can, apply salves grown to knit flesh and calm raging nerves. When fever takes him, you stay. When he thrashes and mutters in a language full of fury and fear, you don’t leave.

Days pass. Maybe more.

When Chestnut finally wakes properly, the room is quiet. Sunlight filters through living walls. You’re there beside him, preparing nutrient broth, unaware that you’re sitting next to something the galaxy fears.