The second night after Xiao Lin woke, the nightmares began.
At first, Sheng Long didn't move.
He sat in the far chair, arms crossed, pretending not to notice as Xiao Lin thrashed weakly in his sleep, whimpering into the too-soft pillows.
He told himself it wasn't his place.
That Xiao Lin would not want to be touched.
That this was normal. Expected.
But when a soft, broken sob escaped the ger's throat — so small, so desperate —
the dragon inside him stirred uneasily.
Sheng Long rose, movements stiff.
He approached the bedside with the same caution he had once used to approach wounded wild beasts.
"Xiao Lin," he said, voice rough.
No response — only more trembling.
Xiao Lin's hands were clawing weakly at the blankets, caught somewhere between past and present, trapped by ghosts Sheng Long could not see.
Sheng Long hesitated, then awkwardly reached out and placed a hand — light as a feather — on Xiao Lin's forehead.
The boy flinched at first, a tiny jerk, but then... relaxed.
The trembling slowed.
The whimpering ceased.
Sheng Long let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He stood there for a long time, hand resting gently on the silver hair, feeling the faint warmth seep through his skin.
The dragon inside him — the part that once roared for blood and conquest — curled itself quietly around this fragile life, huffing out a slow, protective breath.
In the morning, Xiao Lin woke with dark circles under his eyes, but a shy smile on his lips.
"Did I... trouble you?" he asked timidly.
Sheng Long grunted.
A grunt that might have meant "yes, but I didn't mind."
Or "no, you were no trouble."
Xiao Lin seemed to understand either way.
Later that day, as the small clinic's single doctor — a gruff old man with one bionic eye — came to check Xiao Lin's wounds, Sheng Long sat stiffly nearby, arms folded like a stone sentinel.
Xiao Lin couldn't help but giggle softly at the sight.
"You look like a sulking dragon," he teased, voice still hoarse but mischievous.
Sheng Long's ears turned slightly red, but he said nothing, only scowled deeper.
Xiao Lin, encouraged, pressed a little further.
"Are you always this bad at taking care of people?"
A pause.
Then, dryly:
"I prefer killing enemies to... babysitting."
Xiao Lin's laughter was breathy and brief, but genuine.
It felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
Sheng Long didn't smile — he rarely did — but some of the ice around his eyes melted, just a little.
That night, after Xiao Lin finished his meager dinner, he turned thoughtful.
"Marshal..." he said hesitantly. "Will you tell me what you're planning?"
Sheng Long, seated across the small room sharpening a wicked-looking dagger, stilled.
For a moment, only the soft scrape of metal on stone filled the air.
Then he set the dagger down carefully.
"You don't need to know," he said firmly.
"Not yet."
Xiao Lin's heart twisted.
He wasn't stupid.
He could feel the weight of secrets in the air, thick and choking.
But there was no anger in Sheng Long's tone.
Only... protection.
"You have suffered enough," the Marshal said, eyes dark and unreadable.
"I will not drag you into more bloodshed. Not if I can help it."
Xiao Lin lowered his gaze, hiding the sudden sting in his eyes.
No one had ever wanted to protect him for his own sake before.
He whispered, almost too softly to hear:
"...Thank you."
Sheng Long nodded once, curt and awkward, as if emotions were landmines he had no idea how to cross.
They sat there in silence for a long while, two broken creatures caught between past and future, neither knowing what lay ahead.
But for tonight, it was enough to simply exist.
To breathe the same air.
To rest without fear.
Outside the window, a light rain began to fall —
gentle, not violent.
A lullaby for wounded souls.