Eurydice didn't linger long in the room with the gathered group. After another quiet glance toward the bed—ensuring Nyxia still slept soundly, her breaths even and steady—she gently stepped back and closed the door behind her with a soft click.
"I'll prepare the guest rooms," she said simply, her voice still melodic, though now edged with something firmer. "She'll need rest. And you… should keep yourselves close, but not too close."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and glided down the softly lit corridor, her white robes trailing in her wake. The hallway opened into a surprisingly spacious home. Clearly, Eurydice was well-established—her home radiated a refined grace and warmth: polished wooden floors, rich, earth-toned rugs, shelves lined with worn books, vials of herbs, glowing crystals, and relics of the Light.
She moved with practiced ease, lighting a few candles in the guest quarters. The rooms were modest but elegant—simple beds, clean linens, and faint lavender infused in the air. She fluffed the pillows with care, then checked the windows, pulling the curtains closed as moonlight filtered in.
By the time she returned to the hallway where the others stood awkwardly—some leaning against walls, others fidgeting or pretending to admire her decor—she was composed, hands folded neatly in front of her.
"I've made up two rooms. You'll find water and clean cloths inside. No need to track dirt through my home."
Her tone was polite… but distant. Not cold, not hostile—but not welcoming either.
Boo gave her a skeptical look, arms still crossed. "Thanks," she muttered, eyeing the woman up and down. "You always take in strays or is Nyxia special?"
Eurydice didn't answer immediately. Instead, she turned her head slightly, regarding Boo with an expression that could have withered lesser egos. "I saw a soul screaming for help," she said, quiet and level. "I answered. I didn't need to know her history to know she'd been failed."
Perseus shifted uncomfortably.
Eurydice's gaze moved to him next. Measured. Unblinking.
"I know you all mean something to her," she continued, voice softer now. "But that doesn't mean I trust you with her. Not yet. Not after what I've seen."
"She's alive," Perseus said, more to himself than to her. "That's what matters."
"She's barely alive," Eurydice replied, the words dropping like stones into water. "Or was, before tonight. Don't mistake sleep for healing. That kind of hurt doesn't disappear in a day. Or even a week."
Boo glanced away. Someone else cleared their throat in the background. No one met Eurydice's eyes.
"But," Eurydice said after a long pause, "she asked for none of this. So if she wants you close, you may stay. For her sake."
She stepped closer, though her presence remained serene, almost gentle—like the sun at dawn, beautiful and distant.
"But if you bring her more harm… if your guilt turns into pressure, or if you dare to make her pain about you…"
A subtle, almost imperceptible light flared beneath her eyes, holy magic rippling beneath her skin like quiet fire.
"You will no longer be welcome here."
The warning was clear. It didn't need to be loud.
Then, as swiftly as that fire had appeared, she turned back toward the bedroom. Her hand lingered on the knob a moment, her voice softer now, almost regretful.
"I hope I'm wrong about you," she said. "For her sake."
And with that, Eurydice slipped back into the room, leaving the others standing in the hallway, burdened with their thoughts.
Inside, she moved gently toward the bed. Nyxia hadn't stirred. She was still curled beneath the blankets, one hand resting near Loque's tail, her chest rising and falling steadily. Her damp hair had dried into soft waves, and the glow of the runes along the wall bathed her in gold.
Eurydice leaned down slowly, brushing a few strands of hair from Nyxia's cheek with a tenderness so careful it barely stirred the air. She adjusted the blanket, tucking it closer under her chin, then sat down in the chair beside her once more.
The stew she had been preparing still simmered in the pot.
But for now, Eurydice just watched her. Quiet. Present.
Waiting.
The silence lingered long after Eurydice disappeared behind Nyxia's door. Her words still hung in the air like incense—light but inescapable. None of them quite knew what to say, so they didn't. Not at first.
Boo was the first to move, albeit reluctantly. She let out a breath, muttering something under it—maybe a curse, maybe a prayer—and started down the hallway toward one of the guest rooms Eurydice had pointed out. Her boots echoed with each step until she disappeared behind a softly shut door.
Loque remained near the bedroom, ears perked toward the door, tail low. He didn't move right away. He just watched it quietly, faithfully.
Perseus lingered the longest.
He stood in the hallway, eyes downcast, his hand pressed against the wall as if trying to anchor himself. The ache in his chest hadn't dulled—it had sharpened. The sight of Nyxia alive should've been a relief, but the guilt was louder. It screamed at him through every heartbeat.
"I'll go back," he said finally, his voice a low rumble breaking the quiet. "To the tavern."
Loque turned to look at him, but didn't interrupt.
Perseus's jaw tightened. "Someone should collect our things… and I… I need the air. Space."
It wasn't just the belongings. He couldn't look at Nyxia right now, not without feeling like he'd been the one who'd shoved her over the edge. Not without hearing her voice breaking in that alley, seeing the way she'd brushed past him like he wasn't even there. Like she couldn't bear to be near him.
He swallowed hard.
"I'll be back before sunrise," he said, mostly to Loque. Then, quieter, "Tell her I said… never mind."
He turned before he could finish the thought. The front door opened and closed behind him with a dull thud, swallowed by the late-night hush.
Loque stood there another minute before moving to curl up by the bedroom door. He rested his head on his paws, his large form a silent, loyal sentinel.
The house was quiet now.
Only the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen and the soft hum of something warm cooking kept the silence from swallowing everything.
And behind the bedroom door, Nyxia still slept—wrapped in the gentle care of someone who expected nothing of her… and asked for nothing in return.
Just peace. For now.
Perseus moved through the tavern with mechanical efficiency, but his movements were too quiet for someone his size. The innkeeper gave him a glance—perhaps recognizing the burden in his eyes—but didn't ask questions. Good.
He gathered their things slowly, careful not to miss anything. Boo's boots still sat by the hearth, dusty from travel. Loque's gear was neatly bundled in the corner, untouched. Nyxia's satchel, half open, still held a cracked flask and a few dried herbs. He didn't look inside.
With each item packed into the small wagon they'd left tethered behind the stables, Perseus felt the weight growing heavier—not just physically. His mare nickered softly, sensing his mood, but didn't resist when he hitched her to the front.
He paused at the post where the gryphon had been tied and looked up.
"Come on," he murmured.
The beast let out a low chuff from the rooftop, wings twitching. For a second, Perseus thought he wouldn't budge. But then—with a low glide and powerful wingbeats—the gryphon landed beside the wagon. Wordlessly, it climbed onto the back, settling in beside the bags. Safety in numbers. Maybe it understood that now.
Perseus climbed up beside the reins and urged the mare forward. The road was dark, lit only by scattered starlight and the soft scrape of wheels against stone.
For a while, he said nothing.
The rhythm of the road didn't offer peace—only time. Time to think. Time to replay every word. Every look. The fight. The blood. The scream.
Nyxia's scream.
Perseus gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the reins.
"She was dying," he muttered aloud, the words choked, as if saying them might make the memory less vivid. "And I… I yelled at her."
The mare flicked her ears, sensing the tension in her rider. The gryphon let out a low, almost concerned noise from the back, shifting its weight.
Perseus let the reins go slack for a moment, his hands trembling.
"I knew she was falling apart, and I still—"
He stopped. His voice broke. He slammed a fist into the side of the wagon rail, hard enough to bruise.
"She needed me and I pushed her away."
The emotion came all at once, like a wave breaking over a dam. He doubled forward in the seat, breath catching in his throat. Hot tears welled up—unwelcome, unwarranted, but unstoppable. His hands gripped the edge of the wagon so tightly his knuckles went white.
"I was supposed to protect her…"
A sob escaped, muffled against his shoulder. Not loud. But it echoed in the emptiness of the road.
"I am furious… because I care, because I—"
He cut himself off. He didn't know what else to say. The words weren't forming right anymore. Just guilt. Shame. Regret.
Perseus sat there in the dark, letting it crash over him in silence, the wagon creaking onward as the road back to Eurydice's home stretched ahead.
And when he finally straightened up, wiping his eyes with the back of his arm, the anger had dulled—replaced by a cold, quiet resolve.
He would make it right.
Somehow.
By the time Perseus reached the house, the horizon was beginning to blush with the faintest hints of morning. His body ached, but it was a distant thing—muted under the weight of everything else.
He climbed down without a word, quietly unhitching the mare. She nuzzled him gently, sensing his weariness, and he stroked her muzzle before leading her around to the small paddock behind Eurydice's home. He removed her tack, brushed her down, checked her hooves, and gave her water and oats before turning to the gryphon.
The great beast met his gaze with a kind of solemn understanding. Perseus said nothing. He simply approached, removed the straps and packs, and gently rubbed down the creature's flank. The gryphon chuffed low, settling beside the mare with a slow blink of golden eyes. He left them together, safe.
Only then did Perseus head inside.
The house was quiet, the warmth of it almost stifling after the chill outside. He passed Boo's closed door—soft snores slipping out from within. She'd clearly showered and gone to bed hours ago, her scent of honey and leather faint on the air.
He found the second spare room and paused at the threshold. Darj was already there, curled in the blankets like a massive shadow, one amber eye cracking open to look at him before closing again.
Perseus shut the door softly behind him.
He didn't bother undressing. He dropped his things by the wall and collapsed onto the cot beside Darj. The sheets were stiff. The air smelled faintly of incense and lavender. But none of it mattered. Sleep came like a stone dropping in water—sudden, heavy, and full of unrest.