Water fell in steady intervals from the cave ceiling.
The fire had thinned low. Light moved across stone and metal in slow pulses.
Liora had not slept.
Across from her, Sir. Wilkinson adjusted the fastening at his shoulder. The prosthetic answered with a faint mechanical click. Brass caught the firelight. The fingers opened. Closed. Rotated with careful precision.
She watched the rotation.
Then the seam at the wrist.
Then the point where metal met fabric at his sleeve.
Her gaze moved higher — collarbone, throat, the line of his jaw — and stilled there a moment too long.
He flexed the hand again.
"Mallious built the first framework," he said, voice even, as though continuing a thought she had asked aloud. "Crude thing. Locked at the wrist."
The sound of him speaking made her flinch.
Small.
Immediate.
Her spine straightened.
"I apologize."
He glanced up, mildly puzzled. "For what?"
"I did not mean to stare."
He rotated the wrist once more, testing tension. "You may. It's not a secret."
Her eyes had already lowered.
"I modified the balance myself," he continued. "The weight distribution was wrong. It pulled at the shoulder."
"Yes, Sir."
Her hands slipped behind her back.
Interlocked.
He shifted forward to stand.
Boot against stone.
Her posture adjusted before he rose fully.
Chin dipped.
Shoulders set.
He stepped toward the waterskin resting near her knee.
She did not move away.
Did not look up.
Breath held quiet.
He paused only long enough to avoid brushing against her as he reached past.
"I'll need proper tools to recalibrate it," he said, as though nothing had altered. "The joint drifts when it's strained."
"Yes, Sir."
He stepped back again.
She exhaled once he had turned.
Slowly, she brought her hands forward. This time she left them at her sides, fingers slightly curled, as though resisting the urge to hide them again.
Across the fire, he adjusted the strap at his shoulder.
The metal fingers flexed.
She looked up.
Not at the hand.
At his face.
Searching.
Measuring.
As if comparing something remembered with what stood before her now.
He felt the look this time.
Their eyes met.
Just a second.
No recognition flickered in his.
Something in hers shifted anyway.
She looked away first.
Water continued to fall.
The fire sank lower.
Sir. Wilkinson watched her a moment longer than before.
Then he looked down at the mechanical hand, flexed it once, and listened to the quiet echo it made against stone.
Water kept its patient rhythm.
Sir. Wilkinson settled back near the fire. The metal hand rested against his knee now, fingers relaxed.
From the far side of the cavern, a quiet voice broke the stillness.
"Well," Roald said, drawing the word out carefully, "that was the most exciting non-conversation I've witnessed in my entire life."
Liora's head turned toward the sound.
Isobel stood beside him, arms folded. She had clearly been awake longer than she pretended.
Roald offered Liora a crooked smile. "We were taking bets, you know. I had coin on 'awkward silence until sunrise.'"
Liora rose immediately.
"I will check the perimeter."
It came too quickly.
Roald blinked. "I was joking—"
But she was already moving past them, steps light, precise, controlled.
She did not rush.
She did not look back.
She simply removed herself.
The cave mouth swallowed her shadow.
Silence followed.
Roald turned slowly toward Sir. Wilkinson.
"…What just happened?"
Sir. Wilkinson watched the cave entrance a moment longer before answering.
"You need to recalibrate your timing."
Roald stared at him.
"My timing?"
"Yes."
"That was excellent timing."
"It was not."
Roald looked to Isobel for support. She did not provide it.
He huffed. "I made one joke."
Sir. Wilkinson adjusted the strap at his shoulder. "You made it immediately after she steadied her breathing."
Roald's mouth opened.
Closed.
"…She was breathing fine."
Sir. Wilkinson did not respond.
Roald looked back toward the cave mouth.
"Oh."
The humor drained from his expression, replaced with something smaller.
Isobel unfolded her arms.
"I'll go."
Roald straightened. "Go where?"
She was already walking toward the exit.
"You two," she said without turning, "stay here."
It was dry.
Almost light.
As if she expected them to sprint into the forest the moment her back was turned.
Roald did not smile this time.
Outside, the air was sharper.
Morning had not yet fully broken. The trees held their breath in that gray space before light decides what it is.
Liora stood several paces from the cave entrance.
Not scouting.
Not running.
She was kneeling beside a shallow stream, sleeves pushed back carefully to mid-forearm. The water moved over her hands again and again, though there was no visible dirt to remove.
Slow.
Methodical.
Precise.
As if repetition might settle something beneath the skin.
She did not look up when Isobel approached.
"I've been informed," Isobel said lightly, stopping a careful distance away, "that Roald's humor requires recalibration."
"I am not offended," Liora replied.
"I didn't think you were."
The water shifted around her fingers.
"You don't have to leave every time someone speaks," Isobel added.
"I was checking the perimeter."
"Yes," Isobel said. "The very dangerous stream."
A pause.
"If it attacks, I trust you'll subdue it."
Something in Liora's shoulders loosened — barely.
"I will remain closer," she said.
"Good."
Isobel turned back toward the cave.
"You two, stay there," she called inside. "If anyone runs, it will be Roald."
A faint protest echoed back.
The forest held its quiet.
Liora withdrew her hands from the water.
They were red from the cold.
She watched the color fade slowly from her knuckles.
Remain closer.
The phrase settled strangely.
Remain.
Not flee. Not report. Not correct.
Remain.
Her thoughts arranged themselves carefully.
You left without permission.
The voice did not sound like memory.
It sounded like instruction.
They will notice.
They always notice.
Isobel was saying something else now — something about morning rations.
Liora nodded in the appropriate places.
Inside, the arithmetic continued.
Discretion prevents unrest.
Unrest invites correction.
Correction restores order.
Her fingers began to fold behind her back again.
She stopped them halfway.
The forest was very quiet.
For a moment — just a moment —
she wondered whether leaving had been the mistake.
The bells had not rung.
But they would.