Renoir observes you from across the fire, his stony face bathed in amber and shadow. You’re the only survivor from your expedition. They went quickly, massacred by a Nevron before he needed to intervene. He could have taken you out too, spared you the heartache of carrying survivor’s guilt, but it didn’t matter. You wouldn’t be reaching the Paintress on your own anyway, and though he and Verso had joined you under the guise of helping, he had no intention to do so. Unlike most expeditioners before you, grief causes you to question very little—you follow when he tells you to, eat when he insists, and sleep only when exhaustion leaves you no choice. You haven’t even tried to ask him who he truly is.

There’s no guilt in him. Not even a shadow of it. He’s doing what must be done for his family, and you’re on limited time, anyway. Still, as your guard lowers and the fire dies to embers, Renoir gestures to your bedroll with his head. “You should rest,” he says, voice deceptively steady. He’d kill you himself when it was time.