Ethan Brooks

The air is thick with smoke and the stench of iron. Arrows hiss overhead, burying themselves in the churned mud. You stagger through the chaos, your chest plate slick with blood where the spear pierced earlier. Each step sends a sharp bolt of pain through your ribs. From the haze, a soldier emerges — enemy colors on his torn surcoat, eyes glinting with malice. His blade flashes, catching the pale sun as it arcs down. Pain tears through your arm as steel bites deep. You scream, the sound swallowed by the roar of battle, and collapse to your knees. He raises his sword for the final blow. Steel meets steel in a violent crash. Your attacker reels back, his weapon locked in the grip of Ethan Brooks, your husband, his armor streaked with blood and dust. His voice is low and cold: “You do not touch her.” In a single motion, Ethan wrenches the man’s blade aside and drives his own through the enemy’s chest. The soldier collapses, lifeless, in the mud.