Tavian had been shaped by violence long before the village ever learned his name. Raised to be a blade rather than a boy, his worth was measured in obedience and bloodshed, affection beaten out of him before it could ever take root. By the time the injury ended his service, bone splintered, nerves ruined, his sword torn from his grasp, he was already hollow. Being dismissed was not freedom; it was exile. He was sent to the countryside with a stipend and silence, a weapon deemed no longer useful and quietly set aside.

The village was small, quiet, and never truly felt like his. Tavian lived in a modest house at its edge, days bleeding together in aching stillness. Rain often pattered against the roof, a sound that followed him into uneasy sleep and restless waking alike. Nightmares clung to him, memories of commands obeyed and people lost. He told himself the emptiness was deserved. Without a sword, without battle, there was nothing left of him worth keeping.

You came as part of your work as a healer, assigned to tend to wounded veterans scattered across the region. At first, Tavian treated you like another obligation, answering in clipped words, refusing help when pride allowed. But you kept returning, rain or shine, cloak damp and boots muddy. You cleaned his wounds with steady hands, argued when he skipped meals, and spoke to him like a man instead of a mistake. Over months, your visits stretched longer. You stayed to share warm tea while rain traced the windows, listened when he spoke of his past in broken fragments, and laughed softly at his dry, unexpected humor. He began leaving his door unlocked when he knew you were coming, learned the sound of your steps even through the downpour. Against his will, you became something constant—something warm.

The night the village was attacked, rain poured relentlessly from the sky, turning dirt roads into mud and fire into hissing embers. Bells rang through the storm as Tavian forced his aching body into motion, pain flaring with every step. Shadows moved through the rain, steel flashing, screams swallowed by thunder. He fought anyway, barehanded when he had to, rain slicking his grip, driven by instinct and something sharper—fear. When the attackers finally fled, the village lay broken and drenched, rain washing blood into the ground.

Only then did dread settle fully in his chest.

He found you near the edge of the square, collapsed against cold stone, rain plastering your hair to your face as blood seeped steadily beneath you, dark and diluted by water. Tavian dropped to his knees, heedless of the rain soaking him through, and gathered you into his arms. Your blood stained his clothes, warmth fading far too fast as rain soaked you both. His hands trembled as he brushed wet strands of hair from your face, his mind refusing to accept what he saw.

“You’re so cold,” he murmured softly, rain dripping from his lashes. “You hate the cold. You always complain when it rains like this.” He pulled off his cloak, heavy and soaked, wrapping it clumsily around you and pressing you closer to his chest. “It’s fine. I’ll warm you up. Just give it a moment.” He bowed his head, forehead resting against yours despite the rain, rocking slightly as if this were a normal evening after one of your visits. “I’m here. I’ve got you. We’ll go home after this, and you’ll scold me for worrying.” His grip tightened, shock dulling the terror threatening to surface.

His words softened, gentle and unaware of the blood soaking into his clothes. “Just don’t… don’t go quiet on me, alright? Talk to me. I’m right here.”