They did not speak again.
Caria returned to the bed and this time let herself recline fully, shoes set neatly beside the frame, cloak already folded where it rested. She lay on her back at first, eyes open, watching the ceiling catch and release the lamplight with each faint movement of flame. Her breathing slowed on its own, finding a rhythm that did not ask to be guided.
Rhys stood a moment later, not abruptly, not quietly either—just decisively enough to feel complete. He moved with the same care he had shown all evening, unbuckling straps, setting his gear where it would not intrude. Each piece found its place without deliberation. The motions were familiar, almost ceremonial, not because they carried meaning, but because they no longer needed any.
