The main longhouse area is empty when I return, afternoon light filtering through the hide-covered windows in golden streaks that would be peaceful under different circumstances. Saela's door is closed, which probably means she's retreated to the only space that feels even marginally private to her.
Three days of this, and I'm watching her fade like a flower cut from its roots. She eats what Shae brings, participates in conversations when directly addressed, even manages occasional smiles when Ursik shares particularly amusing stories about clan life. But underneath the polite cooperation, I can see the constant tension, the way she watches every door and window like she's calculating escape routes she knows she can't use.
It's like watching someone drown in slow motion.
A soft knock interrupts my brooding—Ursik's familiar pattern, followed by his entrance before I can respond. His usual grin falters slightly when he takes in my expression.
"That bad?" he asks, settling into his preferred chair without invitation. "Let me guess—Drogath thinks divine patience will solve everything, and Bronn thinks political pressure will speed things along."
The accuracy of his assessment would be impressive if it weren't so depressing. "Something like that."
"And what do you think?"
The question catches me off guard. In all the discussions about clan stability and divine will and proper ritual progression, no one has bothered asking what I actually want from this situation.
"I think," I say slowly, "that Saela deserves to make her own choices about her life. And I think she can't do that while she's trapped here like a bird in a cage, no matter how comfortable we make the cage."
Ursik's expression grows thoughtful. "But you also think letting her leave would get her killed by the Stonevein scouts who are still hovering around our borders."
"That too."
"So what you need," he says with the careful logic of someone working through a complex problem, "is a way to give her some control over her situation without actually putting her in danger."
The simple framing makes something click in my mind. Not a solution to the larger political mess, but maybe a way to ease the immediate pressure that's slowly strangling both of us.
"She hates being helpless," I say, remembering the way she tensed when Falla catalogued her weaknesses, the flash of anger when Ursik mentioned the watching guards. "Hates feeling like she can't protect herself or affect what happens to her."
"Most people do. Especially people who've survived what she has."
The observation is casual, but it carries weight. Ursik has seen plenty of humans during border conflicts, knows what desperation and prolonged fear do to people's ability to trust or relax.
"She needs to feel like she has some power," I continue, the idea taking shape as I speak. "Some way to influence her own fate instead of just waiting for other people to decide it for her."
"Training," Ursik says immediately. "Give her skills. Show her how to defend herself, how to move safely through our territory if she ever needs to. Knowledge is power, especially for someone who's been running on pure survival instinct."
The suggestion resonates with something deep in my chest—not just practical sense, but rightness. I remember the way Saela moved during her first night here, quick and economical despite her exhaustion. She's not helpless, just untrained and overwhelmed by circumstances beyond her control.
Maybe teaching her to fight won't solve the political problems or dissolve the clan's expectations, but it might give her back some sense of agency. And maybe, selfishly, it might give us both a way to work through the anger and frustration that's been building like pressure behind a dam.
"Besides," Ursik adds with a grin that's only slightly forced, "you need something to do with all that protective energy before you start pacing grooves in the floor. Might as well put it toward something useful."
He's not wrong. Three days of watching Saela flinch away from clan hospitality while being unable to offer any real alternative has left me feeling like my skin doesn't fit properly. Training would give me a legitimate reason to focus on her wellbeing without the uncomfortable weight of romantic expectation.
And maybe, if I'm honest with myself, it would give me a reason to spend time with her that doesn't involve either of us pretending this situation is normal or sustainable.
"Think she'll agree to it?" I ask.
"Only one way to find out."
I find Saela exactly where I expected—in her room, sitting on the narrow bed with her back against the wall and her knees drawn up defensively. She looks up when I knock, and something in her expression suggests she's been expecting bad news.
"The scouts?" she asks immediately.
"Still keeping their distance. No sign of your friend yet, but our people are still looking." I lean against the doorframe, trying to project calm confidence rather than the restless energy that's been driving me toward increasingly poor decisions. "I wanted to talk to you about something else."
Her posture grows more guarded, if that's possible. "What now?"
The wary resignation in her voice makes guilt twist in my stomach. Three days, and she already expects every conversation to bring new restrictions or unwelcome developments.
