The woods were quiet except for the low rustle of wind and the faint hum of night insects beginning their song. Winnum sat alone on a fallen log, his shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His fingers twisted together and pulled apart, restless.

  He hadn’t gone far from camp, just far enough to be unseen. He could still make out the faint crackle of the warband’s campfire behind him, dim through the trees. The air was cool now. The sky was turning from gray to blue, and the last scraps of daylight reached down through the canopy in thin beams.

  He kept his eyes on the dirt.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. Grief had a way of stealing time. It came like a tide, quiet at first, then heavy and cold, pulling everything else under.

  He could still feel the warmth that had flowed through his hands when he healed Ennett. It was the same warmth he had once begged for when his brother lay dying. The same words, the same prayers. But back then, nothing had come. No warmth. No light. No sound.

  Only silence.

  He swallowed hard, pressing his palms together, trying to shake the memory. But it wouldn’t go.

  He thought he wanted solitude. But when he finally had it, it didn’t feel peaceful. It felt hollow.

  The crunch of footsteps came from behind him. Two sets, slow and careful.

  He didn’t turn.

  “Winnum,” came Maruzan’s voice, calm and steady. “You out here to clear your head, or to punish yourself?”

  Winnum exhaled through his nose, still staring at the ground. “Maybe both.”

  Maruzan stepped around the fallen log and leaned against a nearby tree. His face was unreadable, but his voice was gentle. “You’re allowed to feel angry. You’re allowed to ask why things happen the way they do.”

  “That’s the thing,” Winnum said, his tone low. “I did ask. I begged for answers for years. Nothing came.”

  He finally looked up. His eyes were tired, rimmed red at the edges. “And then today, when it’s too late to matter, the light listens again. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be grateful or furious.”

  Maruzan crossed his arms. “Maybe both of those can be true at the same time.”

  For a while, neither spoke. The forest filled the silence with soft, shifting sounds, branches swaying, leaves brushing against each other.

  “I don’t know what it’s like to lose a brother,” Maruzan said finally, voice lower now. “But I lost my home once. Friends. Half my village burned in Elzibar. I still hear their voices when I try to sleep.”

  He paused, searching for the right words. “You start to think loss is something you can get used to. But you never really do. You just learn how to carry it.”

  Winnum rubbed the back of his neck. “You carry it better than I do.”

  “No,” Maruzan said quietly. “I just don’t talk about it.”

  There was another sound behind them, soft steps, lighter than Maruzan’s. Xonya appeared between the trees, her bow slung over her shoulder. She didn’t say anything at first. She just walked up and leaned against the same tree as Maruzan, folding her arms.

  “You left your pack behind. Not the smartest move in wolf country.”

  He didn’t answer.

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  She crouched down near him, brushing some moss off the log. “You look worse than you did this morning.”

  Winnum gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Thanks.”

  Xonya smirked faintly. “It’s a gift.”

  Then her tone softened. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone. You’re not.”

  He looked up, frowning. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” she said. “You wear it all over your face.”

  He dropped his gaze again, but he didn’t argue.

  Xonya sat down next to him, letting the silence stretch for a while. “We grew up in the low quarter,” she said. “The kind of place where people disappear and no one writes their names down. You know I lost two brothers before I was twelve. One to the mines. One to a fever. After a while, you start thinking loss is just what life does to you. But that doesn’t mean it stops hurting.”

  She looked at him, her expression steady. “It just means you stop letting it decide what you do next.”

  Winnum shifted, uneasy. “You think I’m letting it decide for me?”

  “I think you’re scared that if you start to move forward, it means you’re leaving them behind,” she said.

  That hit deeper than he expected. He looked away again, his throat tightening.

  She continued, her voice lower now. “There’s a girl out there who hasn’t been found. Her family hasn’t lost her yet. They’re still waiting. They’re still hoping. You can’t fix what happened to your brother, Winnum. But maybe you can keep someone else from feeling what you did.”

  He didn’t respond right away. The forest seemed to hold its breath with him.

  Maruzan spoke after a moment. “You have a choice. You can sit here and hate what the light did to you, or you can use it to make sure no one else ends up with that same hate.”

  Winnum’s voice cracked when he finally spoke. “You both make it sound easy.”

  “It’s not,” Maruzan said. “It’s never easy. But it’s better than standing still.”

  Winnum stared at his hands again. They didn’t feel like his anymore. He thought of all the times he’d used them to pray, to mend, to build, and the one time they had failed him.

  The memory of his brother’s face came back again, but it was softer now. Not the image of sickness, but of laughter, of the boy chasing him through the courtyard, sticky with honey bread and sunlight.

  Maybe Xonya was right. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to forget. Maybe he was supposed to carry it forward.

  He let out a long breath and nodded slowly. “Maybe I hate my healing,” he said finally. “But I hate the thought of someone else losing their family more.”

  Xonya gave a small smile, faint but real. “Then that’s enough.”

  He stood. The motion was unsteady at first, but there was purpose in it. He brushed the dirt from his robes, looked toward the faint glow of the campfire through the trees, and started walking.

  He didn’t thank them. He didn’t need to.

  Maruzan and Xonya stayed behind a few moments longer, watching as Winnum’s figure disappeared through the undergrowth.

  “He’s going to be alright,” Xonya said.

  “Maybe,” Maruzan replied. “But not tonight.”

  Xonya gave a quiet hum of agreement. “He’s stronger than he thinks.”

  “So are you,” Maruzan said, giving her a sidelong glance.

  She didn’t respond to that. She just pushed herself up from the log and started walking back toward camp.

  As they moved, the woods began to change again. The night deepened, the air cooling fast. The sound of running water echoed faintly somewhere ahead, a stream cutting through the valley floor.

  When they reached the edge of the clearing, the campfire came into view. Nethira was sitting beside it, feeding dry sticks into the flames. Bram was sprawled near his bedroll, already half-asleep, while Ennett was checking her ankle, flexing it with a cautious smile.

  Winnum was there too, sitting quietly near the edge of the firelight. He didn’t speak, didn’t look up, but his presence was enough. The others didn’t press him.

  Maruzan lowered himself beside the fire, resting his arms on his knees. Xonya sat across from him, her bow laid at her side.

  The fire crackled softly, throwing light across their faces. For the first time all day, the silence didn’t feel heavy. It felt like something healing. Something shared.

  Winnum looked at the flames, the glow reflecting in his tired eyes. He still didn’t understand why the light had returned, or why it had left in the first place. But maybe understanding wasn’t the point.

  Maybe the point was to keep walking. To keep showing up.

  The night deepened, and one by one, the warband drifted to sleep. Only the fire kept its steady rhythm, bright and steady against the dark.

  Winnum stayed awake a little longer, staring into it. Somewhere inside him, a tiny spark of faith, faint and flickering, began to move again.

  It wasn’t enough to banish the grief. But it was enough to guide him forward.

  And for now, that was all he needed.