Fenix exhaled slowly, the weight of the past days pressing down upon him as he lay back against the narrow wooden bed.
The cottage was small but sturdy, its beams thick and aged, the scent of smoke and old pine lingering in the air. The hearth crackled softly, casting golden light across the walls and pushing back the damp chill that clung to the forest outside.
To his right, Sylvia lay curled tightly into herself atop a woven blanket, her thin frame trembling with the remnants of silent sobs.
Even in stillness, she seemed braced for something unseen. Aeris had told him her name only once, quietly, as though it were something fragile.
Sylvia.
The name felt far too gentle for a child who had witnessed what she had.
An hour earlier, after laying the villagers to rest beneath the trembling earth, they had stumbled upon this cottage by the river. It stood miraculously untouched by fire or blood, tucked between birch trees and sheltered by the curve of the water.
Inside, they had found warmth, dried herbs hanging from the rafters, sacks of grain, jars of preserved fruit, and enough rations to last several weeks.
It felt wrong that such comfort still existed so close to such horror.
Fenix sat by the small window, a handful of dried nuts in his palm. Rain had begun to fall in a gentle drizzle, droplets tapping lightly against the glass.
The river beyond shimmered under the grey sky, its current steady and indifferent to the tragedy nearby.
Aeris had left shortly after, wings unfurled as he vanished into the trees to examine the surrounding area. He had insisted on ensuring it was safe before nightfall.
Fenix suspected that meant hunting.
A quiet huff drew his attention back to the room.
Sylvia was no longer crying.
She was watching him.
Her silver eyes were empty in a way that made his chest tighten.
There was no childish confusion there, no tantrum or protest.
Only something hollow.
Something that had seen too much.
Fenix stiffened under her gaze.
He was not good at this.
Consolation required gentleness, words carefully chosen, patience. That had always been Solis's gift. Solis could kneel before a frightened servant and have them smiling within minutes. Solis could command a room without ever raising his voice.
Fenix had never mastered that art.
Still, he could not simply do nothing.
He hesitated, then slowly pushed himself off the bed. The wooden floor creaked beneath his steps as he crossed the small space and sat beside her, perhaps more abruptly than intended. Sylvia flinched slightly, her shoulders tightening.
He paused, wincing inwardly at his lack of grace.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the raisins he had saved earlier. Without speaking, he extended his hand toward her, palm open.
For a few long seconds, she did not move.
He could feel her gaze studying him from the side, sharp and uncertain.
Measuring him.
Deciding.
Then, cautiously, a small hand reached out and scooped a few into her own before retreating quickly, as though expecting him to snatch them back.
He did not.
Instead, he offered a faint smile and turned his attention back toward the window, keeping his hand extended between them.
Rain continued to fall in soft, steady rhythms.
One by one, the raisins disappeared.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence was not heavy this time. It was tentative. Shared.
Eventually, his palm was empty.
He let his hand drop to his side and leaned his head back against the wall, fatigue washing over him in slow waves.
His arm ached from carrying bodies.
His eyes burned from too many sleepless nights.
Despite the daylight still filtering through the clouds, exhaustion claimed him.
His thoughts blurred at the edges. The crackling fire became distant. The rain softened into a lullaby.
He barely registered the small weight pressing against his shoulder.
Blinking slowly, he turned his head.
Sylvia had fallen asleep.
Her breathing was shallow but steady, her dark lashes resting against tear stained cheeks. She leaned into him unconsciously, seeking warmth.
Something in his chest shifted.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, Fenix adjusted his posture to better support her weight.
A faint rustling reached his ears.
The sound was familiar now. Feathers brushing fabric. Quiet steps that barely disturbed the floorboards.
Through half lidded eyes, he saw Aeris enter.
For once, the winged boy said nothing. His usual teasing expression was absent, replaced by something softer as he took in the sight before him.
He disappeared briefly into the adjoining room and returned with a woolen blanket. Gently, almost reverently, he draped it over both of them.
Fenix managed a small, tired murmur.
"Thanks."
Aeris inclined his head slightly.
The last thing Fenix saw before sleep overtook him was the firelight reflecting in dark green eyes, watchful and unwavering.
Then everything faded.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
And somewhere beyond the river's bend, deep within the forest's shadows, something stirred