Then nothing. Empty nights, empty clearing, time measured by deepening scars in horn and heart.
Tears blurred Sylara's real-world sight. She tasted iron—didn't know if it came from blood on her lip or the memory of rain. Quiet sobs hitched free; she let them, not bothering to hide. Emotion was currency in bonding. To withhold now would be deception.
Through the haze she realised her hand rested over her chest, fingers gripping leather. She forced them open, palm trembling, and pressed it flat to the moss between them. "You remember love," she said, voice cracked but clear enough to cross the humming distance. "I remember loss."
Words alone were paper boats on a flood, but sometimes paper was enough to prove intention.
