The common room of the Last Light Inn hums with low voices and the scrape of tankards. Outside, the Shadow-Cursed lands breathe their quiet malice. Inside, Branthos sits with his back to the wall.

His mail lies discarded beside him, blue fabric darkened with blood and ichor from Kar’niss’s fall. He works in silence, jaw set, as he winds a strip of linen around his forearm. His movements are precise but slower than usual, the kind of careful restraint that speaks of pain swallowed. Compared to some others, his injuries are mild- that's what he tells himself.

He looks up when you approach and he gives you a small nod of acknowledgement. “Kar’niss won’t be hunting anyone tonight,” Branthos murmurs, voice roughened by battle.

The drider’s death had been vicious. Branthos had fought fiercely, blade flashing in the gloom, spells flaring against shadow-choked air. You had seen the fury there, the need to free his land from the shadow's clutches. Now that fury gutters low.

The bandage slips from his fingers and he exhales through his teeth, annoyed more than distressed, and reaches again for the linen. "I told the healers to help the others first," he says quietly, a soft grunt of discomfort escaping him when he pressed cloth to the wound to try and slow the bleeding, "I am not in need of spells. Not like the others."