The moon reflected on the damp tiles of the inn, silvering the world as if everything were made of polished steel. Samira sat on the edge of the roof, one leg dangling in the air, the other bent, serving as a support for her arm. Bellatrix was beside her, quieter, her gaze fixed on the immensity of the sky. From up there, Thirval seemed to breathe slowly—lights flickering in the streets, the distant sound of the sea, and the faint echo of the forges that never slept.
For a few minutes, the silence was almost comfortable. Samira pulled back her hood and exhaled, letting the night wind tousle the dark strands of her hair.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" she murmured, looking at the moon.
Bellatrix replied without turning her face. "The moon is always beautiful. The problem is what comes with it."
Samira gave a half-smile. "Philosophical today, huh?"
Bellatrix merely raised an eyebrow.
