"It's good that Davon here is cool-headed," Melisande said at last, breaking a long silence that had stretched thin since they left the overgrown ruins of the bandit camp.
Her voice was softer than usual, drifting into the air like the warm breeze that whispered through the treetops.
The sunlight now poured between branches in faint rays, less oppressive than the gloom of The Bastos March, but not yet welcoming. Their movements were still stiff, and there was a dull ache in their feet and backs. The fight was over, but its residue clung like soot.
Ludwig turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward her. "What makes you say that?" he asked. His tone was as calm as ever, but something edged behind it—curiosity, not offense.
