"I see." He studied the arch's grain, reading ancient chisel marks now softened by moss. "You want me to find her."
"No." Velthiri's pale eyes reflected starlight that hadn't yet appeared. "We want memory. A scrap. A phrase. Something real. If you claim to walk among our sorrow, walk where our grief grows. Alone. No blade drawn."
Draven inclined his head. He wouldn't surrender both swords—symbols mattered—but letting them hang undrawn was concession enough. Sylvanna, who had followed at the edge of the clearing, stepped forward, bow lowered yet ready. "Then I'll—"
Velthiri raised one palm, slim fingers spread like a leaf's veins. "It must be alone," she repeated. Not command, not plea—simple fact.
Draven looked back at Sylvanna. Her jaw flexed, a silent protest swallowed. She gave him a single, curt nod. Come back. No need to voice it.
