As they rode on, the night thinning into something wide and restless, Salviana's voice cut through the wind.
"Let's stop here."
Alaric reined the horse in at once.
They were on a bridge—old stone, worn smooth by time and passing feet, its arches breathing cold air up from the water below.
The river rushed beneath them, dark and unseen, carrying the night with it. The wind tugged at cloaks and hair, sharp and insistent.
He nodded, though unease had already begun to coil in his chest.
The horse stilled. The world did not.
"I want to go down," she said next, her tone flat, almost distant.
Alaric's brows knit together.
Down… where?
Every instinct in him screamed against it. The bridge was high. The river loud. The night too open. Too exposed.
But she had been silent for so long.
If this would make her feel better—if this was the price of her breathing again—he would pay it.
"All right," he said quietly.
