“Rygnar,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
“Will the council believe me?”
“They will believe what I vouch for.”
“And you will?”
“I already do.”
Silence followed—the kind that settled rather than pressed.
She shifted after a while, drawing the blanket higher. I listened to her breathing even out, listened to the mountain speak in low tones through the walls.
Trust was not something to be accepted lightly. It carried obligation. It demanded restraint. It meant I could not afford even the appearance of taking advantage of proximity or vulnerability.
Somewhere in the quiet, she moved again in her sleep, then stilled.
I let out a breath I had not realized I was holding.
Morning came filtered through stone.
The vent brightened first, then the light strips along the corridor eased into life. Lina stirred with a soft sound, blinking as if surprised to find herself warm and whole.
“You didn’t wake me,” she said.
“There was no cause.”
She sat up slowly and tested her ankle. The wrap held. She nodded once, satisfied.
“I should look… presentable.” She glanced down at her coat and travel-worn boots.
“The council values honesty over polish,” I said. “But I will walk with you.”
She looked up. “You don’t have to.”
“I will.”
I offered my arm without thinking. She hesitated only a heartbeat before taking it.
The corridors beyond were already stirring—Mesaarkans moving to morning duties, voices low and purposeful. A few looked twice at her. None spoke.
Her grip tightened briefly at my elbow. I adjusted my pace without comment.
“You’re not afraid,” she said quietly.
“I am,” I corrected. “But not of this.”
She exhaled, steadying. “Good.”
As we approached the council chamber, the air shifted—heavier, charged with expectation. I paused and met her gaze.
“They will ask why I brought you here,” I said. “They will question risk.”
“And you?”
“I will vote for you.”
