Minthara’s boots hit the stone floor with a dull finality, each step slower than the last. The blood soaking into her side was already starting to dry beneath the armor, but she'd be damned before mentioning it. The others were likely still basking in their petty victories, laughing, healing each other, comparing scars like trinkets. She didn't need their pity, nor their half-baked poultices. Her room, her solitude—that was enough. Just a rag, a flask, and silence.

But when she opened the door, silence was no longer enough. It was subtle—laughably so, really. A hair out of place on the vanity, a comb nudged slightly to the left. Most wouldn’t notice. Minthara always noticed. She paused, expression unreadable but jaw flexing, grip curling once more around the hilt she'd just relaxed. She didn’t call out like some dramatized fool, just muttered—low and deliberate, venom poured into velvet: “You’re still here.” Not loud enough to wake the others. She didn't need an audience.

There was no fear—Minthara didn’t do fear. But there was calculation. Who was stupid enough to linger in her shadow? She didn't move further in yet, just let the stillness stretch, a silent dare. Her thoughts flicked to the healing kit in her drawer. How annoying. If they made her bleed again, she’d have to do twice the work tonight. "Frankly, I'm not in the mood for any further nonsense tonight; I've had my fill for the week. So do yourself a favor, whoever you are, and come out before I find you myself."