Navir paced his room, slippers scuffing softly against the stone floor. His breathing slipped out of rhythm as his fingers slid beneath his sleeve. A dull heat throbbed there. He halted mid-step.
"Think," he muttered.
The crescent beneath his skin throbbed, darker than it had been minutes ago. He pressed his arm to his ribs, jaw tightening.
"I just need answers," he said. "That's all."
Another step. Then another. His thoughts split, colliding.
Protect them.
Understand yourself.
"Those aren't the same," he whispered.
The mark flared again, like a warning.
He hissed and tugged his sleeve higher. The crescent had deepened, edges sharper, almost inked.
"No," he breathed.
Footsteps passed outside. Laughter. Life moving on without him.
"Should I keep searching… or not?" he said.
The warmth flared. His pulse jumped.
He leaned against the wall, eyes closing.
Memories pressed in: Baasit's disappearance, Mehrak's death, Ardavan's blank stare, Tarefin's measured calm, the wasteland stretching forever.
"I didn't choose this," he said.
But the mark answered anyway, darkening with every tightened thought. He stared at it, throat dry.
"Is this what you want?" he asked no one.
The crescent pulsed once more, unmistakable, and Navir realized his emotions weren't just his anymore.
Samaveh knocked. The door opened a moment later.
"There you are," she said gently, offering a small smile as her eyes swept the room. "Your mother and your brother aren't home?"
Navir shook his head. "Not yet."
She stepped closer, studying his face.
"And you?" she asked softly. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine." The words came out flat, brittle, nothing like the strain pulling at his voice.
She studied his drawn features, the tight line of his mouth giving him away. "Yeah right," she murmured, "well your face tells a different story."
Silence pressed between them. She closed the door with care. "You stopped talking," she added. "To everyone."
Navir rubbed his forearm. "I'm not dragging anyone into this."
"You think silence protects us?" She smiled, small and sad. "It doesn't."
He finally faced her. "You don't know what I'm carrying."
"I know what distance does," she said. "It kills. Quietly."
He swallowed. "If something happens, "
"... we'll handle it," she cut in gently. "Together."
Navir shook his head, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth despite himself. "I can't make any promises."
She stepped closer, warmth radiating from her palms. "Then promise honesty."
She reached for him, his breath stuttered. Her fingers brushed the air between them, tentative yet firm.
Navir closed the distance instead, curling his hand around hers.
The tension in his shoulders gave way as Samaveh stepped closer, her arms folding around him with quiet certainty. He let himself lean into it, just for a moment.
"If you keep walking this path alone," she murmured against his shoulder, voice low and steady, "no one will be there when you need help the most."
Her warmth lingered, grounding him, too gentle to ignore, too honest to push away.
Navir was still clinging to Samaveh when he saw him.
His eyes lifted over her shoulder, breath catching. "Ravash?" The name slipped out, startled. "When did you get here?"
Ravash stood just inside the doorway, quietly adjusting the wide sleeves of his Argathe robes. The fabric flared before tapering at his wrists, heavy with embroidered borders in ash-gold and bronze. Triangles and spirals ran along the seams, stark against night-black cloth, symbols of time looping back on itself. The usual sharpness in his presence felt muted, steadied.
"Long enough," Ravash said simply.
Samaveh loosened her hold but didn't step away. Navir swallowed, still half caught between her warmth and the moment. "I wasn't expecting you."
"You shouldn't," Ravash replied, voice low. He crossed the room and rested a hand on Navir's shoulder, firm and grounding. "But you're not alone."
Navir's shoulders eased despite himself.
Ravash met his eyes. "I've seen what silence does," he said gently. "And it never starts with enemies."