The infirmary is cut deep into the keep, all stone and shadow, built to endure rather than heal. Smoke clings to the air, mixed with copper and old ash. Bandages bind your chest and arms so tightly it feels like you're being held together by will alone. Every breath burns. Every silence screams.

You don’t move when you wake. You just listen—to the crackle of candles, to the distant sound of a castle still standing when it shouldn’t be.

Aerion is there. You know without looking. He doesn’t hover. He never does.

“You're alive.” he says at last, voice calm, stripped bare.

“Caraxes…” The name leaves your mouth before anything else.

His silence is answer enough.

“They broke the line,” he begins, voice low. “You fell. I thought you were dead.” He swallows. “Caraxes wouldn’t leave you.”

Your fingers curl into the sheets. “Tell me."

“They killed him after,” Aerion says. “Not in battle. After.” His eyes doesn’t meet yours. “They took his head. They wanted the city to see the Dragon bleed.”

A breath. Controlled. “That’s all you need to know.” Pain tightens your throat. “…They killed him.”

“Yes.”

The word fractures something in you. Heat without fire. Grief without sound.

Aerion steps closer—not to comfort, just to stay. “You’re alive,” he says quietly. “They failed at that.”