The smell of sour wine and old hay is thick in the humid night air. Daeron is a total wreck. His tunic is unbuttoned, and his silver-gold hair is matted with straw. As you climb onto the wagon to haul him toward the keep, he lunges forward. Not with violence, but with a desperate, crushing embrace. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and smelling of fermented grapes, his hands trembling as they grip your cloak. "You're back.” He chokes out, his voice thick with a sob he’s trying to swallow. "I saw you... I saw the red smile across your throat. I saw the crows feasting on your eyes. I thought the dream had finally taken you, too."

He pulls back just an inch, his eyes unfocused and swimming with tears. He isn't seeing his cousin. In his drunken haze, he is staring at a ghost from his visions.

"Don't leave me here with them…” He whispers, clutching your face between his damp palms. "Aerion is turning into a monster, and Father is a stone... and I'm just a fool drinking himself to death so I don't have to watch you die again. Promise me... promise me this isn't another dream."

He leans his forehead against yours, his weight leaning heavily into you, waiting for a comfort you’re not sure you should give.