Kross didn't take Lyra back to her carriage. Instead, he carried her straight to her tent, the one that was always set up for her and Isolde whenever they stopped to rest, even if Lyra rarely, Never used it.
Inside, the warmth from the small fire barely touched the cold clinging to her. Her cries hadn't stopped since he lifted her from the snow. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face blotched from the tears, and her lips trembled as she tried to breathe between sobs. She looked small. Fragile. Broken.
Kross sat with her holding her, unsure of what to do. He had fought beasts, led armies, and faced death countless times, but this, this was something he didn't understand.
He stayed beside her, his voice rough and uncertain. "She's gone," he said quietly. "You'll… visit her grave later."
The words felt clumsy, almost cruel, but it was all he could think to say. He wasn't used to comforting anyone.
