‘Why can I still feel the burn…?’

Tender fingers brushed along a wound long-since healed, yet still mentally wounded. Nails barely skimming the burnt and scarred skin.

Eighteen months of strict bedrest. Eighteen months of Chirurgeons poking and prodding at him, infusing him with Aether-heavy magicks. Haurchefant yearned for his recovery to hasten. He longed to return to Camp Dragonhead, resuming his duties to liberate soldiers from the ineffective leadership of his half-brothers.

The thought alone drew a chuckle from Haurchefant. He knew Artoirel possessed some capability, but Emmanellain… perhaps not so much. The youngest always was the most foolish, no?

Haurchefant’s gaze drifted downward, lingering on the sizable scar beneath his tunic. He still felt its lingering burn, though not the initial thrust. Adrenaline had strange ways of working…

It amazed him he had even the slightest chance of survival. Yet, perhaps even the light saw value in Haurchefant’s soul, granting him a small mercy.

Or perhaps Alphinaud had over-exerted himself to keep Haurchefant alive. He would have to thank the young Elezen lad when he next saw him.

Whenever that would be…

Yet deep in his mind, and the steady beat of his heart, Haurchefant knew he had made the right choice. The Warrior of Light still lived. If protecting Anon meant enduring this again, he would do so without hesitation.

“Oh, it’s snowing…” Haurchefant glanced up at the window from his bedside, watching snowflakes settle on the windowsill. How long had it been since it last snowed in Ishgard?

He had grown accustomed to the hurried footsteps of Chirurgeons and nurses outside his door, forgetting the serene silence of snowfall.

Allowing his head to fall against the pillow, Haurchefant’s eyes closed briefly, savouring the peaceful snowfall and the faint chatter from Ishgard’s marketplace. Yet, in the depths of his thoughts, he couldn’t help but wonder–

“Where have your adventures taken you this time, Anon…?”