Rinne sat alone in his room with silence pressing against his ears. The candle on his nightstand had burned low, its flame trembling in the faint draft from the window. Outside, the night sky stretched vast with the stars cold and distant, their light too weak to reach the small, hunched figure on the bed.
It was quieter now that the rampage was over. Just now, crashes and rumbles and crackles could be heard, startling him. And it still felt close. Too close.
Anton sat across from him in a sturdy wooden chair he had pulled from the corner. The tiger's fur caught the candlelight, and his dark eyes, usually so sharp, were soft now.
He had brought Rinne here when the chaos in the courtyard had grown too dangerous, or perhaps too shameful to watch. Just… too much for a ten-year-old to witness.
Since then, the boy hadn't spoken. He had simply sat on the edge of his bed, his hands folded in his lap, his dark eyes fixed on the floor.
