A day later.
Inigo stretched his arms as he stepped into the main room, clad in a loose gray tunic and dark slacks, far removed from his usual gear. His body ached in subtle ways, not from injuries, but from fatigue—the kind that lingered in the bones after days of constant adrenaline.
Behind him, Lyra padded into the room barefoot, her hair slightly disheveled, eyes still a little heavy with sleep. She wore a simple linen shirt over leggings, and despite her warrior's grace, she looked remarkably relaxed for once.
"You're up early," she mumbled.
"I don't think I ever fully slept," Inigo replied with a small smirk. "My brain still thinks we're on alert."
Lyra yawned, dropping onto the cushioned bench beside the low table. "That's because we usually are."
He nodded in agreement, then made his way into the modest kitchen section of the house. The shelves were neatly stocked—some dried herbs, barley, bread, and a few fruits. But Inigo was looking for something more specific today.
