"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—"
"Don’t apologize." The words come out rougher than I intend. "There’s no shame in needing comfort after what you’ve been through."
She searches my face as if looking for some hidden judgment. When she finds none, her shoulders relax slightly.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For staying."
The simple gratitude in her voice makes something twist behind my ribs. When was the last time someone thanked me for anything other than killing their enemies?
"I should go." I rise from the bed, suddenly aware of the intimacy of the moment. "Let you get ready for the day."
But as I reach the door, her voice stops me.
"Krath?"
I turn back to find her watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Thoughtful, maybe. Evaluating.
"Are you all right? You look like you haven’t slept."
The question catches me off guard. When was the last time someone asked about my well-being? When was the last time someone cared enough to notice?
"I’m fine," I say automatically.
Her raised eyebrow suggests she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t press. "If you want to talk... about the nightmares, or anything else... I’m here."
The offer hangs between us, genuine and without expectation. She’s giving me the same comfort I tried to give her—the simple knowledge that someone is willing to listen.
"I’ll remember that," I tell her, and find that I mean it.
As I leave her chamber and make my way to my own quarters, I can’t shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted between us. Not the dramatic change of revelation or crisis, but something quieter. Subtler.
Trust, maybe. The beginning of real partnership instead of mere alliance.
It’s a dangerous development, this growing ease between us. Dangerous because it makes me want things I’ve learned not to hope for. But for the first time in two centuries, dangerous doesn’t feel like a warning.
It feels promising.
The sensation of being watched has faded with the dawn, but I know it will return. Whatever announced its presence in the nave isn’t finished with us. It’s simply choosing its moment more carefully.
But whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone. And neither will she.
That might be enough to change everything.
EIGHT
RHEA
Morning comes reluctantly, gray light seeping through cracked windows to illuminate the ruins of communal life. The vast hall stretches before me, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows that seem reluctant to retreat even in daylight.
Tables lie scattered and broken throughout the space, their surfaces scarred by fire and deliberate violence. Some display deep gouges that could only have been made by claws or weapons. Others show scorch marks where flames licked hungrily at ancient wood. A few have been overturned entirely, their massive oak frames reduced to kindling by whatever fury claimed this place.
The great hearth dominates the far wall—a monument to hospitality now cold and lifeless. Its stones are blackened not just by centuries of cooking fires, but by something hotter, more destructive. The iron hooks that once held cauldrons hang twisted and warped, metal reshaped by heat that should not have been possible in a simple kitchen.
What happened here? What force was powerful enough to turn a place of fellowship into a battlefield?
But the storage rooms survived, somehow. Hidden behind walls thick enough to withstand siege engines, they still hold provisions that speak of careful preparation for lean times. Hard bread wrapped in oiled cloth, still edible despite its texture. Dried meat tough as leather but rich with salt and smoke. Stoppered jugs of water that taste of stone but run clear enough to sustain life.
The monks who built this place understood the value of preparation. They planned for siege, for famine, for the possibility that the outside world might turn hostile. They just didn’t plan for the threat to come from within their own walls.
