"Yes."
Weight slammed into the word—more than memory, more than confession. Recognition glimmered in Velthiri's eyes; she did not need explanations. Pain had dialects. Those who had tasted certain flavours of it could hear kinship in a flat reply.
One heartbeat stretched into three. Luminous spores drifted down like tiny stars, settling on bow limbs, on Draven's coat shoulders, melting to sparks where they touched Sylvanna's copper hair. At last Velthiri turned, the motion precise enough to qualify as verdict.
"One dusk and dawn," she pronounced. "Nothing more. Not yet."
No cheers, no arrows loosed in relief. Only a collective exhale from archers who eased their draw an inch, remaining ready because centuries of caution did not fall in a single negotiation.
