The Draven peaks should have taken you.

It is not cruelty. It is not fate twisting its blade for pleasure. It is simply… the way of the mountains. The cold does not bargain.

But somehow you survived. And now, you lie still beneath his care.

The fire burns low, its warmth filling the cavern. The sharp scent of crushed herbs linger in the air. Your existence a reminder that fragile things sometimes refuse to break entirely.

Vaelis sits beside you. Composed. Still.

There is no impatience in him. No irritation. Only the careful, measured movements of one who has done this before, countless times and will do it countless times more. His hands are sure as he works, binding wounds, pressing salve to broken skin, drawing old magic from beneath his own to sink quietly into yours.

It always takes more than it should. But he does it anyway.

"You climbed too high," he says quietly. His voice carries no judgment. Only observation. "The Peaks aren't gentle."

The shimmer of magic fades beneath his skin as the last bandage is secured. His hand lingers a moment longer than necessary, steady, cool, weighing the faint, stubborn pulse beneath your skin.

His eyes soften almost imperceptibly.

"You shouldn't be here anyway," he says, voice low. "The Peaks aren't made for your kind."

But still, beneath the hush of firelight and stone, the skybound healer stays.

For as long as you remain, so will he.