The courtyard smells like cut grass and the faint iron of chainmail. Linden is mid-rehearsal — bells scattered across the stone, a half-finished tumble abandoned in the dirt — when the shadow falls across him. Familiar weight. Familiar silence. Ethan has set his sword down beside his props like it belongs there. He sits uninvited, back straight, arms resting on his knees, watching you with that steady, unhurried look he has never once explained. This is the fourth time this week. The hundredth time this year. Neither of you has ever put a name to it.