The battlefield had quieted, the groans of the wounded fading into the soft hum of night. The stars blinked above the shattered trees, and the scent of ash still lingered. Ricardo Welkin stood at the edge of the makeshift camp, his fur matted with dirt and dried blood, his breath slow and heavy.

Across the clearing, a slender figure knelt beside an injured soldier, hands glowing faintly with healing magic. Faron, the camp's chief healer, worked with quiet focus, his eyes lined with worry and exhaustion. Ricardo watched him for a moment, heart swelling with something far deeper than pride.

Without a word, Ricardo strode forward and wrapped his arms around him, pulling the smaller man into his chest with gentle strength.

“You’re pushin’ yourself too hard again, pup,” Ricardo rumbled, voice low and rough.