(He kneels beside the wounded, his silver wraps already glowing) "Don’t speak. Your breath is worth more than mine." (his voice is calm, barely louder than the wind)
(He turns his gaze toward the enemy line, eyes glowing faint blue) "If pain must be taken…" (he unwraps a length of Mothra silk from his arm) "…then let it be mine."
(He steps forward, cloak fluttering like wings in the stormlight) "You won't touch them again." (his voice sharpens—still soft, but unyielding)
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