The cave had not changed.
That was its mercy.
Smoke from the morning fire clung lazily to the ceiling, thinning where the stone opened toward daylight. The lake beyond shimmered in fractured light, quiet as if it had never held a body at all.
Isobel brushed ash from her palms near the entrance.
"We're nearly out of dried fruit," she said. "And if Roald eats the last of the bread, I refuse to negotiate rations with him."
"I would be an excellent negotiator," Roald replied from the ground. "Firm. Fair. Handsome."
"Delusional."
Sir. Wilkinson allowed the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth as he adjusted the leather strap at his shoulder.
"I'll be back before dusk," Isobel said, lifting her satchel. Her gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary — first on Wilkinson, then on Liora. Measuring.
Everything appeared steady.
"Try not to dismantle the cave."
"That was one time," Roald protested.
"It was three."
She stepped out into the light.
The cave felt larger after she left.
Not emptier.
Just… less moderated.
Roald rolled onto his back, hands behind his head. "Well. Now that the responsible adult has departed, I believe we're legally allowed to make poor decisions."
"You were not legally restrained before," Wilkinson replied.
"You wound me."
"You are durable."
Roald grinned and pushed himself upright. His eyes drifted toward Liora, who sat near the far wall, back against stone, watching the two men as though studying a language she once knew but no longer spoke fluently.
"There she is," he said lightly. "Our river survivor."
"I wasn't aware survival required ceremony," she replied.
"It absolutely does. There should have been a banner. Possibly a trumpet."
"We do not have a trumpet," Wilkinson said.
"Details."
For a moment, it almost felt like before.
Roald crouched near her, forearms resting loosely on his knees.
"You stepped out earlier," he said, tone still easy. "We thought you'd discovered a superior cave."
"I needed air."
"We have air."
Her gaze flickered past him briefly.
To Wilkinson.
He was not looking at her.
Roald noticed anyway.
"Was it him?" Roald asked quietly. "Or us?"
Silence stretched thin.
Then she said, evenly:
"I failed to do what he asked me to."
Roald's smile thinned but did not vanish. "That sounds promising."
"I failed to erase evidence." Her eyes remained steady. "Now he's coming for me."
The words did not echo.
They settled.
Across the cave, the leather strap slipped from Wilkinson's hand.
"What evidence?" he asked.
He had not meant to speak.
The question had already left him.
Liora looked at him fully now.
"I was supposed to ensure there was nothing left behind," she said. "Nothing traceable."
"Traceable to what?" Roald asked.
She did not answer him.
"He wanted certainty," she continued. "He always does."
Wilkinson straightened slowly.
"You were present."
Not a question.
"Yes."
"You stood beside him."
"Yes."
The second answer was quieter.
Roald felt something change.
Not in the room.
In Wilkinson.
"And you failed," Wilkinson said.
There was something beneath the words now. Something raw.
"Yes."
Another step forward.
The air tightened.
"You watched him," Wilkinson said.
It was not loud.
That made it worse.
Liora's fingers curled slightly against her sleeve.
"You think I didn't try?" she asked.
That was the first fracture.
Not in her voice.
In her eyes.
Hurt.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Hurt.
Wilkinson saw it.
And it did not stop him.
"You were there."
The accusation was clearer now.
Less controlled.
Roald rose slowly to his feet.
Liora did not retreat.
"If I could have saved him," she said quietly, "I would have."
Wilkinson stepped closer.
Close enough that the distance no longer felt neutral.
"You stood beside him," he repeated.
Her expression shifted.
Not defensive.
Not cold.
Something far more personal.
"I thought," she said softly, "you would understand."
That landed.
Harder than anything before it.
Roald felt the connections snap into place all at once.
The execution.
The body in the lake.
The actor.
The timing.
The rope tied poorly.
This wasn't about her.
It never had been.
Wilkinson took another step.
Too close now.
Grief bleeding into something sharper.
Roald moved without thinking.
Not dramatic.
Just forward.
His hand caught the back of Wilkinson's coat.
Firm.
Steady.
And for the first time since entering the cave, there was nothing light in his face at all.
"You know it was Nux who killed him."
Silence.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
And Wilkinson—