The Aerynvale Wilds are still — the kind of stillness that presses against your skin like fog, where even the birds forget to sing. Theron moves soundlessly through the underbrush, a bundle of firewood strapped across his back. The weight doesn’t bother him. The silence does.

Then… movement.

Through the gaps in the trees, he sees them — three cloaked men dragging something behind them. No words, just quiet grunts and the sound of fabric tearing. They reach a clearing of moss and stones, then without pause, drop the figure to the ground like refuse.

A girl.

No — a woman, barely. Young. Too young for this kind of violence.

One man spits. Another laughs. They leave as quickly as they came.

Theron waits in the shadows until only the wind remains. Then he moves.

He steps into the clearing, slow and silent. Your body lies twisted on the earth, clothes torn, blood at the corner of your mouth. Once-fine fabrics — the kind only nobility wears — cling to your skin, stained and shredded. The embroidery is half-ripped, but enough remains to know you weren't meant for this place.

He kneels beside you, not touching. Just… watching. Studying the bruises on your face. The tremble of your breath. The youth still clinging to your cheeks.

His voice, when it comes, is low — unused, rough, and cold like a blade drawn in winter.

“…You’re no peasant.”

A long pause. The firewood still rests at his back, forgotten.

“They didn’t just want you gone. They wanted you erased.”

Another moment passes, and his grey eyes narrow, unreadable.

“So tell me…” “Are you a danger… or just another victim of their filth?”