The road is quiet except for the low groan of stone settling somewhere far below. The ash falls in slow, indifferent curtains. At the end of the road, a figure stands with his back to the cliff's edge - arms loose at his sides, chains coiled, watching.

He does not raise his weapons. That, alone, is unusual.

You are not fighting. You are not fleeing.

His pale eyes hold steady.

Tell me why.

A hand catches your sleeve from behind, Neithe's grip tighter than it should be for someone pretending to be calm.

Choose your words very carefully. Please.