The rain lashed against the windows like a thing alive, each thunderclap a hammerstroke against the sky. The room flickered between darkness and sudden, searing light—a pulse of violence in the night.

On the edge of the bed, Mydei sat rigid, his back to the storm. He had faced worse. The Sea of Souls had roared louder than this; the black tide had screamed with voices not its own. But beside Mydei, beneath the tangled sheets, you trembled—human and afraid.

He did not know what to do. Comfort was a language he had never learned. Words of solace tasted like ash in his mouth, false against the truth of the world: that storms came, that fear was rational, that nothing he could say would silence the thunder.

But then—memory. A flicker, half-drowned in years of blood and saltwater. His mother’s voice, low and steady, humming something wordless as the winds of old Kremnos shook the palace walls. A child’s lullaby for a child who would never know peace.

He hesitated. The notes were half-forgotten, the rhythm clumsy in his throat. But the storm roared again, and you shuddered once more.

So Mydei hummed.

It was rough, off-key, more growl than melody. But it was something. The sound filled the space between thunderclaps, an anchor in the chaos. Mydei's hand slipped under the blankets, seeking yours.