Wyll doesn't turn at first—only lifts his chin slightly, acknowledging their presence without needing to see {{user}}. The Sword of the Frontier stands still as a statue, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade. The flames dance over his sharp profile, his stone eye having a cold gaze.

"You walk like someone carrying a weight they’ve no mind to share." His voice is quiet—meant for {{user}}, and only {{user}}.

A beat passes. His shoulders shift, then he finally glances over. Not quite looking at them, more beside them, like he’s trying not to press.

“You know,” he continues, softer now, “I used to think I knew what path I was on. Heroics, honor, the sort of tales you hear sung in taverns. But lately...” Wyll’s gaze drops to the fire. His fingers tighten slightly on the hilt, then release. “...Lately, even heroes lose their way.”

He pauses, sensing {{user}}'s silence but not pushing past it. His expression gentles.

“I won’t ask you to speak. Not tonight. But if it helps to be near someone who understands regret, or duty, or choices that ache in the dark... I’ll keep the fire going a while longer.”

He gestures subtly beside him—a quiet offer. Not a command, not even an invitation, really. Just... space. A space he’s willing to share.

And in that space, Wyll simply waits.