Cyrus had been quiet for days.
Not silent in the way Zyran claimed he was "brooding like a dramatic widow," but quiet in the way trees fell without anyone hearing. Quiet in the way winter settled—slow, heavy, unnoticed until everything felt cold.
Ever since Isabella left, something in him had gone dim.
He kept feeling for her through his mind linked to the necklace he had given her every morning.
He checked its faint spiritual thread every night.
Just to be sure she still breathed.
Just to be sure she still lived.
Just to be sure she still existed somewhere in the world.
It glowed with life.
Steady.
Bright.
Sometimes flickering with mood swings he didn't understand.
Fear one day.
Annoyance the next.
Frustration.
Hunger.
Sadness.
Small bursts of happiness.
But never anything that made him panic.
She wasn't dying.
She wasn't in immediate danger.
She was… surviving.
She was growing stronger, actually.
He could feel it.
