Arthur's voice broke the quiet like breath over a cracked flame, low and gentled not by pity but by timing. "Mel is aboard the Typhoon. With Lyn."
From the knot of limbs and shadow beneath the table's edge, Fedlimid stirred. His arms didn't drop, but something in the shape of him wavered. His voice rose like a splinter forced through a throat too dry for mercy.
"Thanks, Milda." He rasped. "But maybe… I need her right now."
No one moved. Not yet.
Rynna shifted closer, no sound, no ink, only the raw stretch of breath through unmoving lips. She spoke, but not in voice. Just mouth-shapes, exhale and intent. The syllables drew clean across the air like invisible threads, aimed only at him. There was no sound, but Fedlimid flinched. He could hear her. Somehow, he could hear every unspoken word, as if her lips moved in the marrow of his ears.
