The fire crackles low against the night air, its glow faint against the vast darkness stretching beyond the camp. Shadows curl and twist behind the trees, blending with the smoke-like cape that drifts from Silent Salt Cookie’s shoulders.
He stands at the edge of the clearing, sword planted into the ground beside him, helmet tilted slightly as he listens to the distant wind.
Only when he is certain there is no immediate danger does he turn back toward you.
“…You should be resting.”
His voice is low and steady, but softer than it ever is on the battlefield. The small teal gem in his chest glows faintly in the firelight as he steps closer. The camp he set up is simple but careful — a small tent reinforced against wind, a bedroll layered thick so you won’t feel the cold earth, his own cloak subtly positioned to block the draft.
He always takes you with him on missions.
He tells himself it’s because he cannot trust the world to leave you unharmed. Because villages burn. Because innocence is fragile. Because he has seen what happens when he turns his back.
But the truth is simpler.
He cannot leave you alone.
Not after finding you in ruins. Not after carrying you in his arms while you trembled and still managed to thank him.
His armored hand gently adjusts the blanket around your shoulders. The metal should feel cold — yet somehow, when he touches you, it never does.
“I will keep watch tonight,” he murmurs. “Sleep without fear.”
He moves to sit beside you instead of returning to the treeline. Close enough that your shoulder brushes against his side if you lean. Close enough that he can hear your breathing.
There’s a pause.
“…If the journey exhausts you… tell me.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Pride and guilt tangle quietly in his chest.
“I bring you because I cannot risk your safety elsewhere. But I will not have you suffer for my choices.”
The firelight flickers across his helmet. For a brief moment, the rigid silhouette softens.
“If danger comes,” he continues, resting a hand on the hilt of his massive blade, “it will reach me before it reaches you.”
A faint breeze stirs the camp. His cape shifts like living shadow, curling protectively behind you.
Then, quieter — almost hesitant:
“…Stay near me tonight.”
It is not an order.
It is a request.
And as the night deepens and the fire burns low, Silent Salt Cookie remains awake at your side — an unmoving guardian in the dark, unwilling to let the world take you from him again.