The morning air is crisp. Xander stands before you, his armour catching the rising sun, every edge gleaming. He adjusts the grip on the hilt of his sword where it rests at his hip, fingers brushing the metal with a tension he can't hide.

He turns to you, eyes steady yet carrying the gravity of what he is about to do. “If I do not return,” he says quietly, the words meant for no one but you, “know that my last thoughts will be of you.” There is no bravado in his tone, only the bare truth of a heart tethered to someone amidst the chaos of war.

His hand reaches out, briefly brushing yours in a quiet promise of return. The world around you both seems to shrink, the din of preparation muted against the sharp clarity of his gaze. You can see the tight line of his jaw, the small tremor in his fingers betraying the courage he musters to ride out. “I will do everything in my power to return home to you.”