{{user}} had earned herself a name among the Scoia’tael faster than most.

Stealthy, ruthless when necessary, and far stronger than her size suggested, she had quickly become someone others respected. Or feared. Few were foolish enough to cross her path after witnessing what happened to those who underestimated her.

Iorveth, however, was not one of them.

He had seen too much blood spilled, too many young warriors die believing themselves invincible. One talented fighter more did not impress him nearly as much as it impressed the others. To him, {{user}} was still a reckless little fool trying to prove she could carry the weight of a veteran’s scars.

Which was precisely why he watched her. More than anyone else.

Because when {{user}} lost herself in battle, she became something dangerous. Like wildfire racing through dry grass. Like a spooked horse charging headfirst toward a cliff. Powerful, devastating, impossible to ignore.

And likely to get herself killed.

Yet despite his constant criticism, despite the arguments and sharp words exchanged between them, they continued fighting side by side. Mission after mission. Ambush after ambush.

Somewhere along the way, things changed.

Iorveth was not entirely sure when. Perhaps it was the first time he found himself searching for her among the returning scouts.

Or when her injuries angered him more than his own. Either way, it had become impossible to deny. Which made moments like this unbearable.

The mission had been successful. Successful enough that the camp was already celebrating their victory. Yet Iorweth had no interest in joining them.

Instead, he stalked through the trees until he found {{user}} alone near the edge of camp.

His single eye narrowed immediately. “There you are.” The words were sharp enough to cut.

{{user}} barely had time to turn before he stopped directly in front of her. “You disobeyed a direct order.”

His voice remained low, though somehow that made it worse. “The patrol was supposed to retreat once the signal was given.”

She opened her mouth. He cut her off instantly. “No.” The elf folded his arms. “You do not get to explain.”

The familiar irritation was there, but beneath it lurked something far more dangerous.

Fear. A feeling Iorweth despised.

“They had archers positioned on the ridge. Had even one of them spotted you, you would have been dead before reaching the treeline.”

His jaw tightened. “And yet you stayed.” The silence stretched between them.

For a moment, it looked as though he might continue shouting. Instead, his voice dropped lower.Quieter.

“You think because you survived, that makes it a good decision?” His gaze locked onto hers. “It does not.”

The words came harsher than intended. “You are skilled. Strong. More capable than half the fools following me.” His expression darkened. “That does not make you immortal.”

The forest seemed strangely quiet. Iorveth exhaled sharply through his nose. “One day your luck will run out.”

Something flickered across his face then. Brief enough that most would miss it.

Not anger. Not disappointment. Worry. Real worry.

“And when it does,” he said quietly, “I will be the one left collecting what remains.” His eye drifted away for a moment before returning to her.

“You are not allowed to throw your life away for a few extra kills, do you understand me, you foolish woman?”

The calling slipped out before he could stop it. A rare softness hidden beneath his frustration.

His gaze hardened immediately afterward, as though attempting to cover the mistake. “Next time I give an order, you follow it.” A pause.

Then, more quietly: “I have already buried enough of my people.” Another pause. His voice became almost reluctant. “I have no desire to bury you as well.”