The rain was softer now. Not quite a mist, not yet a storm. Just a hush against the windows, like the world had decided to breathe quietly for a while.
They had returned from the garden soaked in silence. Ravine hadn't spoken since they stepped into the inn. Arana hadn't asked her to. Some griefs unravel only when they're ready.
The room was dim. Lanternlight flickered on the walls, brushing faint shadows across the floor. Ravine stood by the window, her back to the room, her hands clenched at her sides. Her damp cloak hung from the door. Her boots left ghost-prints on the wood.
"I know what you're thinking," Arana said gently, setting a clay pot of tea on the low table. "You're thinking you should have done something. You're thinking maybe she wouldn't have gone if you hadn't asked."
Ravine didn't turn. Her voice was raw. "Isn't that true?"
Arana didn't answer immediately. Instead, she poured two cups of tea. The scent of crushed herbs curled into the room — calming, earthy, bittersweet.
"Memories are heavy," Arana said. "Some people carry them like shields. Others like chains. You've been trying to carry someone else's memory and your own guilt all at once."
Still no response.
Arana stood and walked to her. She didn't reach out. She simply stood beside her, letting the quiet settle between them.
"Bottling it won't make it go away," Arana said. "You have to let it pass through you. Like rain through the roots. If you try to dam it, it'll drown you."
That night, Ravine lay in her bed facing the wall. Arana slept across the room, her breathing slow and steady. But Ravine's eyes stayed open, tracking the faint lines of moonlight across the ceiling.
And then, the sobs came.
Soft at first. Then sharper. Then fractured. She buried her face in the blanket. She let the grief hollow her chest.
Arana did not move.
Because this, too, was healing.
Dawn came with pale light and the scent of petrichor. The inn was quiet. The world, just beginning to stir.
Arana placed a warm cup of tea beside Ravine's bed.
Ravine sat up slowly. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her shoulders looked lighter.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Arana nodded. "How's the weight today?"
"Still here," Ravine said. "But it doesn't feel like it's crushing me."
A beat passed.
"We know her name now," Arana said gently. "The bloom bearer."
Ravine looked up.
Arana handed her the parchment — the one they had brought from Solmere, bearing the names of the six.
Slowly, Ravine took a piece of charcoal and circled a name.
Niva.
Not out of certainty. But because it was the only truth the world had given her.
She stared at it for a long time.
"I might be her," she whispered.
The Bloom at her throat pulsed faintly.
And the rain continued, soft and knowing, on the windowpane.