Ragnar slipped from Kalia's warm bed, the sheets whispering against his skin as he padded barefoot down the dim hallway.
His throat burned, parched from hours of ragged breathing and murmured names.
The house lay quiet except for the faint creak of floorboards under his weight.
In Lila's kitchen, moonlight sliced through the window and pooled silver on the stone counter.
He filled a glass from the pitcher, drank deeply, the cold water shocking his dry throat.
For a moment he stood there, glass cool against his palm, letting the silence settle his racing pulse.
As he turned back toward his room, a thin line of golden light spilled from under Elaris's door.
He paused.
The house felt too still, the kind of still that presses on your chest.
He edged closer, peering through the narrow crack.
Elaris sat curled on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped tight around herself, shoulders trembling.
