The first thing Roald felt was weight.
Not pain.
Weight.
As though the world had been pressing down on his chest for days and had only just decided to lift one careful inch.
The air smelled of crushed herbs and river damp. Burned linen. Something faintly metallic.
He tried to move his fingers.
They responded.
Slowly.
"…Roald?"
The voice was steady.
Too steady.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar timber, darker than Emberwake's usual beams. His vision blurred once, twice — then steadied.
Isobel was leaning over him.
Not composed.
Leaning.
Her hair was tied back without precision. Shadows sat beneath her eyes like bruises she hadn't bothered to hide.
"You're late," Roald rasped.
Her breath caught before she could stop it.
"You were unconscious for three days."
He blinked.
"…Three?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"You frightened us."
Not me.
Us.
Another voice cut in from the opposite side of the bed.
"Three days," Liora said, arms folded, "is very dramatic. If you were going to compete with me, you could've at least warned us first."
Roald turned his head.
She was sitting backwards on a chair, chin resting on the wooden back, watching him with sharp, bright eyes.
Alive eyes.
"You exploded," he croaked.
"Technically," she replied, "I did not. I almost exploded. There's a difference."
Sir. Wilkinson, standing near the window in immaculate posture, cleared his throat.
"I believe the medical term was 'internal detonation risk.'"
"See?" Liora said, gesturing vaguely. "Professional assessment."
Roald squinted at her.
"You look better."
"So do you," she shot back immediately. "Less blood. Fewer holes."
Isobel exhaled quietly. The tension in her shoulders had begun to loosen now that they were snapping at each other like usual.
"You were stabbed," Isobel said calmly. "By a hunter."
"Yes," Liora added. "Welcome to the club. Very exclusive. Nux seems fond of outsourcing."
She said his name lightly.
Too lightly.
Roald watched her carefully.
"You were worse," he said.
"Obviously."
"You almost died."
"You did almost die."
"You blew up."
"I did not blow up."
Sir. Wilkinson sighed.
"There was an explosion."
"There was a chemical miscalculation," Liora corrected. "Which I survived, thank you very much."
Roald studied her.
There was humor there.
But beneath it — he saw the memory. The smoke. The fire. The hunter Nux had sent for her. The way she had refused to let it break her.
"You were unconscious longer," she added, smirking. "So I win."
"This isn't a competition."
"It absolutely is."
Isobel stepped back slightly, watching them, and something in her expression softened. Relief, layered over restraint.
"You didn't sleep," Roald said to her quietly.
"I did."
"When?"
"Briefly."
Sir. Wilkinson folded his hands behind his back.
"She refused to leave the room."
Isobel shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
Roald smiled faintly.
"Thank you."
Her composure flickered at that — just for a second.
Liora leaned closer over the back of her chair.
"For the record," she said, "if you try that again, I'm charging you."
"For what?"
"Emotional distress."
"You'd lose in court."
"I'd represent myself."
"You'd be imprisoned within the hour."
Sir. Wilkinson tilted his head.
"She has a point."
"I do not," Roald said weakly.
"You absolutely do," Liora replied. "You nearly die once, fine. It's dramatic. Heroic. Twice? Now it's repetitive."
He huffed — then winced faintly.
Sir. Wilkinson stepped forward immediately.
"You will not attempt to sit up."
"I can."
"You cannot."
"I can."
"You will not."
Roald narrowed his eyes.
"…Are you crying?"
Silence.
Sir. Wilkinson froze.
"I beg your pardon?"
"There," Roald said faintly, lifting a trembling hand toward his own face. "Left side."
Isobel blinked.
Liora leaned sideways, squinting theatrically.
"Oh. Oh no."
Sir. Wilkinson frowned and reached up absently beneath his eye.
His fingers came away damp.
He stared at them like they'd personally betrayed him.
"Dust," he said firmly.
"We're indoors," Roald replied.
"Extremely aggressive dust."
Liora covered her mouth, trying and failing not to grin.
"Sir," she said gently, "if you begin weeping openly, I will absolutely never let you recover from it."
"I am not weeping."
"You absolutely are."
"I most certainly—"
"You were hovering," Liora added helpfully. "Very un-intimidatingly."
"I do not hover."
"You hovered."
Isobel finally laughed — quiet and warm, the sound almost fragile from disuse.
The room shifted.
The air felt lighter.
Sir. Wilkinson straightened immediately, reclaiming composure.
"You are fortunate," he said more quietly now, gaze settling on Roald. "Very fortunate."
The humor faded just slightly.
Roald met his eyes.
"I know."
Liora leaned back in her chair again, softer now.
"Next time," she said, "if Nux sends another hunter, we coordinate. You distract him. I don't explode. We call it growth."
Roald gave her a tired, crooked smile.
"Deal."
Outside, the city was moving toward something none of them could yet see.
Inside, for a brief moment—
They were just four people in a room.
Alive.
And together.