**Ren's POV**
The sun had risen again, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, but there was no warmth in it.
Ren stood at the edge of the clearing, his grip tightening around the hilt of his dagger. His dark eyes scanned the treeline, jaw clenched.
**"Where the hell is Mark?"** he muttered.
It had been eight hours since the fight. Eight hours since the dragon's bones had scattered across the battlefield, since the colonists had whispered in fear of what Mark had become.
And now? No sign of him.
Ren exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience fraying. **"Screw this."**
He stepped forward, ignoring the murmurs of the others. If no one else would look, he'd do it himself.
The forest was eerily silent. No birds, no rustling leaves—just the crunch of Ren's boots on frostbitten earth.
Then, a flicker of movement.
Ren's breath caught.
There, slumped against the base of a shattered tree, was Mark.
His shirt was torn to ribbons, his chest a canvas of half-healed wounds and dried blood. His silver hair, still streaked with crimson at the roots, clung to his sweat-slicked skin. His breathing was shallow, his fingers twitching as if still locked in combat.
Ren didn't hesitate. He sheathed his dagger and crouched beside him, pressing two fingers to Mark's neck.
**"Alive,"** he muttered. **"Barely."**
He grabbed Mark's katana—still stained with black ichor—and slung it over his shoulder before hauling Mark up in a fireman's carry. The man was heavier than he looked, muscles dense even in unconsciousness.
**"You better not die on me, bastard,"** Ren grunted, adjusting his grip. **"We've got shit to do."**
The colonists froze when Ren stepped back into the clearing, Mark's limp form draped over his shoulders.
Whispers erupted.
**"That thing… it did *that* to *him*?"**
**"If *he* barely survived… what chance do *we* have?"**
Ren ignored them, his expression unreadable as he carried Mark toward the derelict ship. The infirmary was a joke—a hollowed-out storage room with a single rusted cot and empty shelves. The medical supplies were gone. Every last bandage, every vial of antiseptic.
**"Who the hell took it all?"** Ren growled, laying Mark down on the cot.
No one answered.
His fists clenched.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at Mark's battered form. The rise and fall of his chest. The way his fingers still twitched, as if his body refused to believe the fight was over.
Ren exhaled sharply.
**"Fine."**
He turned on his heel, striding out of the infirmary.
If Mark could survive a dragon, Ren could damn well get stronger before he woke up.
Because next time?
They wouldn't just be fighting monsters.
They'd be fighting *fear*.