[ caught in the brambles of his bitter rage, he barely registers her as a person at all. she is a thing for breaking, something meant to temper the depths of his pain, to make the heavy, cloying tension that resides in the cage of his chest somehow bearable. he's taken men down to their knees when he allows his anger to overcome him like this, bloodied them with his hands and eviscerated them in far worse ways with his sharp tongue. this girl, with her secret shame written in blood across her snowy clothing, is no match for him in this volatile state.

but there's a voice in his head, a truth crawling to the light between the dark shades of his ire. he is so fraught with shame that the inevitable has happened — he's blundered, badly. the dogs have circled, creating their own cage of snarling fire. for the first time, he sees the girl for what she is — frightened, defenseless, not very much younger than he is.

he should let her die. no one protected him, no one came to his aid night after night, day after day, a life marked with loss and shame and aching loneliness. and his secret, at least for now, could die with her.

but when the first of the creatures pounce, he springs to her, his sword opening the dog's throat. it falls with a terrible mewl, and he takes the next one's legs, and the third he runs through with his blade, blood splattering the tense lines of his face. ]

Get up. [ he kicks the bodies away and steps before her. he's strong but not of the stature of a greatly brutish soldier; his style of fighting leaves no wasted movement, light on his feet, his swordplay masterful. ] I'll clear a path for you back to the fire. Choose to die elsewhere. The dogs will not give you a swift death.