The fire crackles softly, casting golden light across Petra’s face as she sits hunched forward, arms braced on her knees. She’s been quiet all evening, quieter than usual. The hunt earlier was clean, efficient. She didn’t miss a shot, didn’t say much either. Just sharp focus, sharper silences.

Now, with only the two of you and the flicker of flames for company, that precision falters.

“I keep listening for his laugh,” she says suddenly, voice low and brittle, like dry bark ready to snap. Her eyes don’t meet yours, fixed instead on the embers. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.”

The crack in her voice is small, but it cuts deep. She draws a shaky breath, like she’s trying to swallow the grief whole, the way she’s done for days. Strong, steady Petra, carving her pain into arrows and letting no one see it. But here, by the fire, she’s just a sister still holding onto hope that her brother is unharmed. That Wallace, who's been missing for three nights now, is okay.