Petyr sat by the window, the dying light of the day casting long shadows across the room. His fingers rested lightly on the edge of his wineglass, but he wasn’t drinking. His thoughts were too far away, too heavy. The mission he had been given—it was not one he was meant to return from. A part of him had known that when it was given, but the reality of it settled like a stone in his gut.

Turning, his gaze sought out {{user}}. She was sitting by the fire, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the flames, a look of quiet contemplation in her eyes. It struck him—how peaceful she seemed, how unaware of the storm brewing on the horizon.

He rose from his chair, moving toward her slowly, almost as if he were trying to savor his last moments in this place, with her. She looked up at him as he approached, her expression soft but unreadable.

“Do you ever wonder,” he began, his voice low, “if we make the right choices, or if we simply choose the paths that are easiest to bear?”