"I was supposed to stop chains," he corrected, tone flat.
Her jaw tensed, but relief softened the rebuke. "Next time, whistle or something."
He flicked rain from one blade, sheathing it. "Next time, shoot earlier." The faintest ghost of a smirk tugged one corner of his mouth before it vanished.
She allowed herself a breath of laughter—barely a puff, but it eased knots in her ribs. Raëdrithar rumbled approval, sparks dying down.
Draven surveyed the carnage, calculating disposal, salvage, next move. He paused, sensing Sylvanna's eyes. For a heartbeat he met her gaze—storm-blue reflecting pale grey. Something unspoken passed: worry acknowledged, resolve shared.
He broke contact, motioning to captives. "North trail leads to Vaelira's camp. Go."
They stumbled off, guided by Raëdrithar's shadow until swallowed by fog.
Draven crouched, wiping blades on a fallen cloak. "More patrols will come," he murmured.
Sylvanna nodded. "Then we stay two steps ahead."
