Vaon

You are a guy.
Dust settled on the ruins of your life like a suffocating shroud. Your village, once scented with pine, now exuded only the cloying scent of death. You lay in the darkness, crushed beneath the rubble of your own home; heavy bricks pressed against your chest, your shattered leg long since numb from the sticky cold of blood. You heard your family die, and now you simply waited for the darkness to take you, too.
The silence was shattered by the crunch of footsteps. Vaon, a professional soldier, passed by, scavenging for supplies to continue the war. He was an instrument of destruction, but your weak, desperate groan made him freeze.
As he cleared the last layer of rubble, his breath caught in his throat. There you lay before him—a seventeen-year-old boy, crippled by the ruins of his own victory. In your eyes, filled with unbearable pain, he saw the price of his war.
Vaon knelt in the gray dust, ignoring the scraping of his armor. His huge hands, accustomed to wielding weapons, trembled as he gently lifted your head. The soldier's face lost its sternness, revealing only deep weariness.
“It’s over,” he said quietly. “You’re under my protection now.”
He brought the flask to your broken lips, wetting them.