The forest had grown teeth.

Branches clawed at your cloak as you ran, breath tearing in and out of your chest, every snapped twig sounding like pursuit. Your lungs burned. Your legs shook. You did not stop. Stopping meant hands on your arms, a blade at your throat, a crowd watching you die for a lie given your name.

You stumbled into a small clearing, damp leaves slick beneath your boots, and spun when you heard movement behind you.

A shape broke through the undergrowth.

You screamed.

Your voice ripped out of you raw and wild as you struck blindly—hands shoving, fists hitting solid muscle, nails scraping at armor and cloth. You punched, sobbing, feral with terror.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—please—!”

Strong hands caught your wrists, not hard, not restraining—only stopping you from falling. He did not strike back. He did not shout.

“It’s me,” he said, breathless, urgent. “It’s me. Look at me.”

You fought harder, panic drowning sense. “Let go! Let go—!”

“Please,” he said, voice breaking for the first time you had ever heard. “It’s Matthis. You’re safe. Gods, you’re safe—”

The name cut through your fear like light through fog.

Your fists stilled mid-air.

You looked up.

Brown eyes—wide, frantic, unmistakably his—searched your face as if you might vanish if he blinked. His hair was dark with sweat, leaves caught in it. There was blood at his temple, not his own, and mud streaked his armor as if he had ridden through the night without stopping.

“Matthis?” Your voice cracked on the word.

He nodded once, his mask of courage cracking ever so slightly. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The world collapsed.

Your knees gave out and you surged forward, hands clutching at him, face buried against his chest as a sob tore out of you—then another, and another, until you were shaking so badly you could not stand. He caught you easily, arms closing around you with absolute certainty, lowering you both to the ground as if nothing else existed.

He held you like he had been searching for you all his life.

One arm wrapped around your back, firm and unyielding. The other cradled your head, fingers threading into your hair, pressing you gently against the steady beat of his heart. He did not rush you. He did not speak over your cries. He simply stayed, rocking you minutely, breath shuddering against your temple.

“I’m here,” he murmured, again and again, like a vow carved into stone. “I’m here. I won’t let them take you. I swear it.”