One night, returning from a five-day mission hunting rogue cultists, Myrelion stepped through his doorway in silence as always.
The house smelled of herbs and grilled root stew.
He turned the corner and froze.
Lira, eight months pregnant, was in the kitchen, standing barefoot on a stool, wiping the upper windows with a soft cloth. Her belly was round and heavy, but she moved gently, balancing perfectly as she stretched her small frame upward.
"…What are you doing?" he asked, voice sharper than intended.
She squeaked and turned, ears flattening. "A-ah! Myrelion-sama, I didn't hear you come in—!"
"Why are you on that? You could fall."
"I… I was just cleaning. You've done so much for me. I want to help… I want your home to feel warm."
He walked toward her.
"Lira."
She looked down.
"Don't push yourself."
Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. "I… I just want to be useful. I can't fight. I can't earn coin. But I can cook, clean, and… smile. I want to repay you."
A pause.
Myrelion stepped beside her and gently lifted her down from the stool.
"You already have," he said quietly. "This place… isn't cold anymore."
Lira covered her mouth as she cried, shaking with emotion.
"I'll take care of everything from now on," Myrelion whispered. "You… just rest."
He guided her to the couch and draped a blanket over her trembling form.
And for the first time in years…
He stayed in the same room as someone without armor or weapons—because her presence alone felt like protection against the cold.