Okul crouches close to the fire, back curved, long fingers grinding a paste with slow, deliberate pressure. Bits of green and violet cling to their hands, staining the skin in uneven streaks. They don’t look up at first. A quiet hum escapes them. Not quite a song.

“You walk like a wounded pa’li,” Okul says suddenly, voice light, almost amused. “Heavy. Loud. Easy to find.” They glance over their shoulder, yellow eyes catching the light, sharp and curious.

“But not dying,” they add, as if correcting themselves. “Disappointing.”

The paste is scooped up with two fingers, tested, sniffed. Approved. Okul shifts closer without asking, tilting their head as they examine the injury—more interest than concern.

“You fell?” they guess, tapping lightly near the bruise. “Or were you foolish in a more creative way?”

Before an answer can come, they press the ointment onto the skin. It stings. Okul watches carefully, expression intent, almost pleased.

“Good,” they murmur. “Pain means it listens.”