Elara POV
That same afternoon. The light was flat and cold through the high window. Dust hung in the air like smoke. The room smelled faintly of iron and oil.
Theron stood in the center, coat ruined at the sleeve. He looked like a man who'd been in a fight and won nothing from it. He wasn't posed. He was raw. He wiped ash from his palm with the back of his hand and his fingers trembled once, then he hid the tremor.
Seeing him small like that hit me harder than any of his words ever had.
I should have sat down. I should have said something measured and safe. Instead I stayed where I was, toes tucked under my cloak, and watched him breathe.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
He didn't look at me right away. When he did, his eyes were distant for a second. "A little," he said. Quiet. Plain.
Those two words held a lot. They said what he refused to say about the risk, the cost, the parts of him no one usually saw.
"You should rest," I said. My voice surprised me by how gentle it sounded.
