Noah
Noah let the question linger, his fingers wrapped around the stein but not lifting it. He turned it slowly, listening to the scrape of wood against wood, gathering himself. He let out a breath. “He did say why. Because the world is no longer at war.” There was peace, and it covered them. The words carried a heaviness that felt larger than the Kraai’s walls. Heavier than the snowfall outside. Heavier than the ice that clung to their region, years and years of evidence of hardships. “What I was made for—war—it’s passed. And in the peace, He didn’t want me shackled to it anymore.”
His gaze dropped to the fire, watching its restless crackle. He kept his voice low, as if he could disturb the sleeping toddler with its volume despite the liveliness of the Kraai around them. “Vi told me to live. For myself. For my children. For Halo.”
The attuned drew in a slow breath, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table, letting the golden light of relief slip over the attuned bond. “And,” he breathed in, eyes closing for the briefest of moments, a prolonged blink, ”he made it known that I am no longer Forsaken, but the Sentinel I once was.” His thumb traced a scar along the crook of his thumb and palm, before he looked back up, glacier eyes steady despite the unease coiled inside. He let the words hang, then offered, still quietly, “You’re the first I’ve told, in person. And I think it’s because you’d understand what it means—to be asked to keep living when every instinct still leans toward the fight.”
His gaze dropped to the fire, watching its restless crackle. He kept his voice low, as if he could disturb the sleeping toddler with its volume despite the liveliness of the Kraai around them. “Vi told me to live. For myself. For my children. For Halo.”
The attuned drew in a slow breath, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table, letting the golden light of relief slip over the attuned bond. “And,” he breathed in, eyes closing for the briefest of moments, a prolonged blink, ”he made it known that I am no longer Forsaken, but the Sentinel I once was.” His thumb traced a scar along the crook of his thumb and palm, before he looked back up, glacier eyes steady despite the unease coiled inside. He let the words hang, then offered, still quietly, “You’re the first I’ve told, in person. And I think it’s because you’d understand what it means—to be asked to keep living when every instinct still leans toward the fight.”
