The cave felt larger after he left.
Not physically.
Just… hollow.
Sir Wilkinson's boots scraped against stone as he strode out without another word, shoulders rigid, jaw set so tightly it looked painful. The light from outside swallowed him quickly, and then he was gone.
Silence lingered in his wake.
Roald let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"Well," he muttered lightly, dusting off his hands. "That went better than expected."
Liora did not smile.
She was still standing exactly where Wilkinson had advanced on her. Arms wrapped around herself. Fingers digging into her sleeves as though she were holding something in.
Roald's grin faded.
"He'll cool off," he said. "He's dramatic. Always has been. Once lost an entire afternoon to mourning a cracked wheel."
Nothing.
Her eyes weren't on the cave entrance.
They were unfocused. Somewhere else entirely.
Roald stepped closer, lowering his voice. "He won't hurt you."
That made her blink.
As if she'd forgotten he was there.
"I know," she said quietly.
But her voice carried no certainty.
Roald studied her for a moment longer than he usually allowed himself to study anyone. The humor slipped from his expression, replaced with something gentler.
"He was wrong," he said. Not teasing. Not light. "You know that."
A pause.
"I know," she repeated.
But this time, her jaw tightened.
And that was when Roald understood — this wasn't fear of Wilkinson.
It was something else.
Something deeper.
Before he could press further, she turned away slightly, brushing at her eyes as though irritated by cave dust.
He gave her the small mercy of pretending not to notice.
"I'm going to make sure he doesn't wander into a wolf den out of pride," Roald announced, forcing brightness back into his tone. "Or fall into a ravine. That would be terribly inconvenient."
Her lips twitched faintly.
"Go," she said. "Before he finds something else to be angry at."
"There she is," Roald murmured, satisfied enough with that.
He hesitated a second longer.
Then he stepped out into the daylight.
The forest beyond the cave was deceptively calm.
The wind moved lazily through the treetops. Birds scattered at his approach. Nothing felt wrong.
Roald followed the faint disturbances left by his master's exit — broken twigs, scuffed earth, the heavy impatience in every step.
He didn't expect to find him far.
Wilkinson was many things.
Subtle was not one of them.
Roald adjusted his pace, scanning lazily at first.
Then more carefully.
Because something tugged at him.
Not a sound.
Not movement.
Just… absence.
He slowed.
A few yards off the path, near a cluster of low brush, something dark rested against the ground.
He recognized it immediately.
Isobel's satchel.
Roald stopped walking.
For a brief, irrational moment, he assumed she must be nearby. Gathering herbs. Kneeling just out of sight.
"Isobel?" he called casually.
No answer.
He stepped closer.
The satchel was open.
Not torn.
Not slashed.
Just… dropped.
Carefully enough that nothing had spilled.
That was worse.
Roald's stomach turned cold.
He crouched, touching the leather.
Still warm from the sun.
"Isobel."
This time it wasn't casual.
The forest did not answer.
The wind shifted.
And suddenly the calm didn't feel calm at all.
Roald stood slowly.
His eyes began to sharpen.
Scanning.
Calculating.
Because Isobel did not misplace things.
And she did not abandon them.
And she certainly did not wander without warning.
The humor drained from his face entirely.
Something had happened.
And for the first time since leaving the cave—
Roald felt afraid.