“I sleep in broken pieces,” he said. “It is enough.”
It didn’t feel like enough.
Without thinking it through, I reached across the span of glow and set my fingers lightly on the back of his wrist. It was a silly, human gesture—proof of contact, proof of now. His skin was warmer than I expected, cooler than my own. Not so different. The muscle under it flexed, then relaxed. He turned his hand just enough that my palm settled more comfortably.
We stayed like that until my eyes drifted shut. Not holding. Not clinging. Just a small agreement that the world could be less sharp for a minute.
“Good night, Rygnar,” I said, not sure how long it had been since I had told anyone good night and meant it.
“Rest, Lina,” he said.
The cave breathed. The mountain held.
I let sleep find me—not because the dark was empty of danger, but because, for the first time since the road went wrong, the sound of another person’s breathing made mine make sense.
I woke to the cave breathing.
Not the storm—that had moved on sometime before dawn—but the slow exchange of warm stone and cold air, a quiet sigh that rose and fell around us. Pale light slid across the floor, catching on the uneven rock and the edge of my coat.
My ankle ached when I shifted, but it didn’t scream. That alone felt like a small mercy.
Rygnar was awake.
He stood near the cave mouth, just inside the line of light, still enough that I might have mistaken him for part of the stone if I hadn’t learned his shape already. One hand rested loosely on his weapon, the other braced against the rock as he leaned forward, reading the ground outside.
I pushed myself upright and tested my weight.
The ankle held.
Barely.
Rygnar turned at the sound. His gaze flicked down, taking in the way I favored one side and the tension I hadn’t managed to hide.
“We don’t move today,” he said.
I blinked. “I thought we’d go at first light.”
“We will move,” he said calmly. “Just not yet.”
The words landed heavier than I expected. I glanced past him toward the clean-washed slope beyond the cave. The storm had scoured the ground smooth, erasing tracks softening edges.
“That helps us,” he said, following my gaze. “And your ankle needs the same courtesy.”
I let out a slow breath, letting the resistance drain out of me. He wasn’t hesitating. He was choosing.
“Okay,” I said. “One more day.”
He inclined his head once, decision complete.
The morning became assessment.
Rygnar moved through the space with quiet efficiency, checking angles, stepping out far enough to test sightlines, then returning to adjust something small—a stone shifted, a branch broken and scattered, the canister repositioned so its heat wouldn’t carry toward the entrance.
He did not pace. He did not rush. He worked like someone who understood that stillness could be a form of movement.
I watched him while I ate, the ration bar cracked carefully in half. He handed me the larger piece without comment and took the smaller for himself.
“Not necessary,” I said.
