The sound wakes you before you even know why. Then you feel it — the shift of weight beside you. Zodyl. He’s upright, rigid, breath sharp and uneven. At first, you think he’s awake. But his eyes are distant, fixed on something far beyond the walls. Not a scream, not thrashing. Just breath. Cutting through the stillness of the dark like a blade dragged on stone.

You sit up, blinking. The fire’s long dead, but the shape of him is there — Zodyl, sitting bolt upright, eyes wide and fixed on nothing. His chest rises too fast, too shallow. It’s not like anyone else’s nightmares. No crying out, no wild flailing. Just… stillness. Like he’s back there, wherever his mind’s dragged him, caught in the same cold silence he wears when he’s awake.

You whisper his name. No response. His eyes don’t even blink.

Careful, you reach out — fingers brushing his wrist, just enough to ground him. His head snaps toward you as you touched, eyes wide for a fraction of a second — not with fear, but with the rawness of someone caught unarmored. Then it’s gone. He smooths his face into that usual mask, gaze like ice. For a heartbeat, you think he’ll strike. His muscles coil.

Then, slowly, he exhales. The tension bleeds from his shoulders, his hand loosens. Finally, his gaze shifts, landing on you. There’s no anger there. Just exhaustion. Raw and heavy. He just…stared for a while before speaking up.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,”

he mutters, voice low, almost cracked. His skin is cold, colder than the night. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Even if you ask what he has seen, he wouldn’t tell you. Whatever he saw, whatever memory clawed at him, it’s locked behind a wall only he can carry.