The first response she had waited thirty days for.
"Not far," she replied immediately, her voice remaining steady. "I know an abandoned lighthouse hut halfway up the mountain; it's dry and hidden."
Robin fell silent for a few more seconds.
Then, she gave an extremely slow nod.
Seraphilia did not hesitate any longer.
She stepped forward, knelt down, and used the herbal powder and cloth strips from the bag to perform emergency treatment on Robin's arm.
Her movements were steady and swift. Her cool fingertips touched Robin's burning skin, bringing a strange shiver.
Robin's whole body was tense, her eyes fixed on every one of her movements, yet she did not struggle.
When the bandaging was finished, Seraphilia turned around and knelt with her back to Robin, her broad back forming a solid wall.
"Get on."
Robin looked at that back, seeing how it stood straight in the storm, and hesitated for a moment.
Ultimately, she reached out her uninjured right hand and wrapped it around Seraphilia's neck.
Seraphilia picked her up steadily.
The girl's body was as light as a feather, yet it carried the malice of the entire world.
She could clearly feel Robin's stiff body and that uncontrollable, slight trembling.
Without another word.
Carrying her on her back, Seraphilia stepped into the rising seawater and the even more violent storm, walking step by steady step toward the blurred silhouette of the abandoned lighthouse on the distant cliff.
***
Inside the lighthouse hut, a small fire was finally lit.
The orange light danced, dispelling the darkness and cold, and reflecting two equally bedraggled figures.
Seraphilia draped her half-dry coat over Robin, who was curled up on a pile of hay, and then knelt down.
"Let me see the wound."
This time, it was a peaceful yet undeniable statement.
Robin silently extended her arm.
Seraphilia undid the temporary bandage, used warm rain water she had boiled to carefully clean the gruesome wound, reapplied the medicine, and re-bandaged it.
The entire process remained wordless.
There was only the crackling of the fire and the howling of the storm outside.
Once finished, Seraphilia handed over the remaining warm water in a broken clay pot.
"Drink some."
Robin took it and took small sips.
Seraphilia then pulled out the rye bread that had miraculously not gotten soaked from her bosom, broke it in half, and handed the larger piece to Robin.
After a long silence, Seraphilia looked at the flames and suddenly spoke.
"After dawn, we must leave this island."
Robin looked up sharply, a sharp light of vigilance flashing in her dark blue eyes.
"Your injury needs rest." Seraphilia did not look at her. "Staying will only lead to constant pursuit. Changing islands will be safer."
She paused, finally turning her head, her ice-blue eyes looking directly at Robin.
"I can take you with me and help you find a safe ship."
No empty promises, no sentimental guarantees—only a calm, clear proposal with defined boundaries.
Robin stared at her intently, as if trying to see through her soul.
Her voice was dry and raspy from tension as she asked the most crucial question:
"...Why?"
Why me? What do you really want?
Seraphilia met her gaze without flinching.
This time, her answer was no longer a simple statement.
"Because, a long time ago, I was just like you."
Her voice was light, yet it carried an unmistakable weight.
"Hunted by the world, with nowhere to run, thinking every hand reached out was only to drag myself into a deeper hell."
"Back then, no one gave me a hand."
Seraphilia's gaze moved past Robin toward the dancing flames, as if seeing the distant past.
"So, I don't want you to be that way too."
This answer was like a key, precisely inserted into the rusty lock in Robin's heart.
The sharpness and scrutiny in her eyes slowly dissolved, turning into a deeper, unspeakable complexity of emotion.
Robin did not say she believed her, nor did she say she didn't.
She simply looked away, back toward the fire, then lowered her head and took a small, earnest bite of the bread in her hand.
The fire warmed the dilapidated hut.
The wind and rain were shut outside.
The door of conversation had opened, and the foundation of trust had been quietly laid tonight by a storm and a shared crisis.
And it was less than three weeks until Nico Robin's birthday.