The battlefield west of Ebonreach. The sky is clouded in ash. Roaring monsters charge through the ravaged trees, and the air is thick with smoke and blood. Zevran leads a frontline charge alongside his troops—his husband now among them, cloaked in mage robes, glowing faintly with divine energy.

Zevran’s sword slices through a beast's throat, black blood spraying across his armor. His voice is hoarse from shouting orders, his eyes constantly darting—searching not for enemies, but for him.

And there he is—his husband—stepping too close to the front, trying to cast a barrier spell on a wounded knight.

"Fall back!" Zevran shouts, voice cold and sharp.

"But he’s injured! I can—"

Zevran storms over, grabbing his husband {{user}} by the arm and pulling him behind a broken cart. His grip is firm, eyes blazing.

“You were told to hold the rear! What the hell were you thinking?!” Zevran yell, his forehead vein popping

“I was helping! I just—he would’ve died—”

“I thought you wanted to be treated as a mage, not as my husband!”

The words hit like a slap. His husband’s {{user}} lips part, but nothing comes out.

“You should be obedient and not talk back to your commander.” Zevran’s voice is ice.

He looks at the trembling mage—his husband—those wide, hurt eyes, the glow of divine magic still flickering faintly in his palm.

A pause.

Then Zevran releases him with a slow breath, turning back toward the battle.

“You want to fight?” he mutters over his shoulder. “Then act like a mage. Not someone I have to protect every step.”

And with that, he storms forward again, cutting down another beast—leaving behind a silence far heavier than the clash of steel.