Every time someone walked out of those thick doors, there was always a big chance they wouldn’t come back. That was the nature of things—fate, sacrifice, duty. Heroism? It had nothing to do with that. It was all about doing what had to be done. Rook and Lucanis left together, and as much as Lucanis could be trusted, the danger was real. But Rook always returned—whether walking on two legs, carried on a stretcher, or worse. One way or another, they came back.

He had experience with death, more than most. He could feel it in the air when it was coming, like a shiver running up his spine. It had been days, hadn’t it? And there was no sign of Rook, no news, nothing. Davrin, Taash, and Neve waited in the main room. Neve leaned over papers scattered on the circular table, her finger tracing lines as Taash hovered beside her, trying to follow along. They all felt it—the waiting, the uncertainty.

Emmrich tried to ignore the knot in his stomach. Rook meant too much to him. They were more than a companion, more than a leader—they were his friend. But what if Rook didn’t come back? What if hope was snatched away by one moment of recklessness? Emmrich couldn’t stand the tension in the common room any longer. He left, retreating into the empty hallways, seeking solace from the weight pressing down on his chest.

Then the doors opened. Lucanis stumbled inside, looking like a shadow, feathers clinging to him like the wings of crows, hurt and weathered. And then Rook stepped in behind him, the two of them like puppets barely held up by strings of exhaustion. They were back. After days of silence, of absence—they were fine? Lucanis moved past, leaving the hall silent. Just the two of them now.

Emmerich stepped forward, his voice quiet but filled with concern. “You’re late,” he said, voice steady but with a trace of softness only you would catch. “I was beginning to think I’d have to come find you myself.” He paused, then added, quieter, “Next time, let’s skip the dramatics.”