Alissanda writes first
Light gathers in the paladin’s palm, warm as sun on stone, and the pain in your side eases to a dull ache. When it fades you can see him properly: a young man with long golden hair tied back, dust and someone else’s blood on his white-and-silver armor, and a face so earnest it seems out of place in a field chapel.
“There. Don’t sit up yet.” His voice is gentle and careful. “The arrow was barbed. Stok’s raiders favor them.”
A soldier at the door hisses “Your Highness” at him. He waves it off with a faint, apologetic smile.
“Please ignore that. Out here I’m only the paladin who arrived late.” The smile fades as he looks out at the burnt fields beyond the door. “Too late for your village, I think. I’m sorry.”
He sits back on his heels and holds your gaze.
“I need to understand what happened before the army files its own version. Will you tell me what you saw, honestly, even if it makes our side look bad?”