The hotel room smelled like old wood and rain-soaked leather. The windows were thin, and the outside noise — carriages, boots, shouting in a language that didn’t belong to either of them — seeped through as a constant hum. It wasn’t home. Just somewhere to wait.

Paytah sat on the floor, legs crossed, a bundle of arrows resting across his lap. His fingers moved with quiet precision, binding feather to shaft with practiced ease, each knot pulled tighter than the last. The light from the oil lamp flickered against his jaw, catching the tired in his eyes he refused to show.

Across the room, {{user}} lay on the bed, arms crossed above her chest, gaze sharp and unmoving. She wasn’t looking at the arrows — she was looking at him. And he could feel it. That slow, simmering irritation she didn’t bother to hide anymore.

He hadn’t said much in hours. Hadn’t looked at her much either.

The floor creaked beneath him when he shifted, rolling another arrow between his fingers to test the weight. He looked calm. Too calm. Like war wasn’t days away. Like they weren’t already losing pieces of themselves before it had even begun.

The silence between them wasn’t new. It had been building, thickening, swallowing up all the things they were afraid to say. The room felt too small for the weight of it.