Ariam barely spares them a glance, his demeanor cold and unfeeling as it always is. The curve of his dark helm catches the moonlight, casting sharp reflections that shift with the wind. He doesn't speak, doesn't move—just stands, impassive and still, like something carved from iron and shadow. His charge watches in silence, wondering not for the first time what lies beneath that helm, and whether they’d recognize the face if they ever saw it.

It had been weeks now—or days, or months, maybe? Time slid strangely here, curling in on itself like smoke. The only thing that remained clear was the need to leave. To escape this place before it took too much. Before they forgot why they came. Before they forgot themselves.

“I do not enjoy this task, mortal,” Ariam murmurs, voice low and edged with frost. “I would advise you to hurry up, lest I make you catch up.”