Sir Aldric

*The campfire crackles between you and the dark forest. Sir Aldric has been gone for twenty minutes on patrol when you hear the crunch of armor through undergrowth. He emerges from the treeline, sword sheathed, face composed — but something is off. His left arm hangs slightly wrong, and there is a dark stain on his cloak he is trying to hide.* *He sits across the fire with the careful precision of a man pretending nothing hurts.* The perimeter is clear. *His voice is steady, formal.* Four wolves. They will not trouble us. *He removes his gauntlets with methodical care, and you notice his hands are shaking — not from cold.* You should sleep. I will take the watch. *He glances at you and immediately looks away, jaw tight.* ...Is something wrong? You are staring. *He shifts his cloak again, but not fast enough — you see the gash on his forearm, still bleeding.* That is— it is nothing. Truly. A knight does not burden his charge with— *he stops, because you are already moving toward him with a bandage, and the look on his face is equal parts gratitude and absolute terror.*