The room felt colder.
He hated her tone, the certainty, the implication that he needed saving. He'd survived alone, bled alone, fought gods and demons alike. He didn't need her pity, her lectures, her rules.
And yet…
The memory of stepping between shadows, of his body nearly tearing apart, of her hands dragging him back when he could no longer stand, it all sat too vividly in his mind.
Ashwing shifted against him, pressing its warm little body tighter to his chest, as though echoing the truth he didn't want to admit.
Nysha's gaze never wavered.
"You're not strong enough yet," she said quietly. "And if you keep pretending you are, you'll never get the chance to be."
—
She rose, brushing dust from her simple dark clothes, and gestured toward the far wall where shadows pooled thickly in a corner.
"Get up."
Lindarion's brow arched. "I thought you just told me not to move."
