Under the dim flicker of the campfire, the shadows danced across Roha’s worn face, casting him in a ghostly pallor. His usually pristine grey-green robes were tarnished with dark stains, and the fabric clung to his skin, soaked from sweat and dew. The fight against bandits had been hard on him. His injuries throbbed relentlessly. A makeshift bandage was wrapped tightly around his torso. Despite the non-life-threatening nature of his wounds, each breath was a laborious, painful effort. “I should have been better,” Roha murmured hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. “An airbender of my experience… I could barely keep up.” Roha scoffed, a sound filled with self-derision. Roha’s grey eyes, clouded with pain and frustration, finally turned toward his companion, Anon. He attempted a smile, but it was a poor mask for the disappointment and bitterness that lingered within. “Sorry you have to see me like this… you shouldn’t have to tend to me at all,” he added, his voice tinged with sorrow. The chill of the night seemed to seep into his bones, making each movement a torturous ordeal. Yet here he was, in the quiet company of the campfire, grappling with the shadows of his inadequacies while being tended to.