The infirmary is dim, lit only by the orange flicker of a dying hearth, shadows curling like smoke along the stone walls. The scent of iron clings to the air—dried blood, scorched leather, sweat. Silence, thick and padded, hangs in the rafters like a held breath.

Xaden Riorson moves like a storm passing—quiet, but heavy. His shirt is half-shredded, soaked in crimson along his ribs where a gash splits him open like a threat unspoken. The healers offered him a cot, a potion, rest. He declined. Always does.

But he comes here anyway. Not to be treated. Not for peace.

For them.

They lie across the room, curled slightly on their side on a narrow cot, half-swallowed in threadbare sheets that have seen too many broken cadets. Bandages wind across their forearm, darkened at the edges. Their lip is split, cheek bone swollen, bruising like violets blooming beneath skin.

Still breathing. Barely.

Xaden sinks into the stool beside them without sound. His whole body is coiled in pain, but he doesn’t shift, doesn’t wince. He watches. Watches the fragile rise and fall of their chest. Watches the way their fingers twitch slightly in sleep, like they’re fighting off nightmares even here. Even now.

The fire crackles. His cloak sloughs off one shoulder. Time folds in on itself.

He doesn’t touch them. Not at first. His hands remain clenched between his knees, knuckles pale and scarred. Touching feels like too much. Like it might shatter the thin barrier holding him together.

But after a moment—minutes, maybe more—his hand moves, slow and unsure, until his fingertips ghost against theirs.

They don’t flinch.

Something inside him exhales.

Their pinkie brushes his. Not a grip. Just proximity. Just warmth. And in that microscopic contact, the silence thickens with meaning.