"I am officially tired of walking," Erich announced.
"You weren't official before?" Lyan asked.
"I was in denial before," Erich said. "Now it's policy."
Lyan snorted.
He leaned forward, dipped his hands into the basin.
The water was as cold as before, a clean slap against his palms. It tasted of stone and sky and something he couldn't name but trusted anyway.
He drank.
The knot of watchfulness in his mind eased a little.
(Not watchless,) Eira said.
(Just… less tight.)
"Fine," Lyan muttered.
Erich watched the water for a moment like it might bite him.
He remembered the way it had woken the word in him last time.
Weak.
He remembered how his throat had tried to close around it.
The Saintess's voice echoed in his head instead.
Say: I failed once because I pushed past my limits.
He rolled his shoulders back.
"I'm not letting a puddle bully me," he said.
He cupped his hands and scooped up water.
It trembled a little between his fingers.
He lifted it to his mouth.
