Later, when the fire had burned down to a dull red hush, Rhea stood.
"I should go. My mother'll ask."
Lindarion didn't respond. He sat very still. Like the weight of the blanket, the warmth, the food—all of it had only reminded his body how tired it was.
She hesitated near the door. Then, quieter, "If you want more soup, I can bring some later."
He gave the smallest nod. Nothing more.
And she left.
The door closed behind her. A soft sound. Almost polite.
Lindarion didn't move.
The fire cracked once. Then fell quiet. Just the occasional shift of wood settling into ash.
The bench under him creaked when he leaned back. Not much. Just enough to remind him he was still made of bone and blood.
His hands rested on his knees. Still shaking, faintly. Muscles fluttering under the skin like something was trying to get out.
He focused on the stone floor instead. Its texture. The cold seeping through the soles of his boots. Easier than focusing on anything else.
'You're safe now.'
