The afternoon slid into a hush filled only by the soft scrape of quills and the distant rhythm of Molly's hooves as the pony shifted in its stall.
Sura recorded dosage charts for the herbs; Evan sharpened two daggers and waxed bowstrings. Occasionally their knees brushed beneath the table; once Sura's hand strayed to steady an inkwell and rested on his wrist a moment too long.
Later, he stoked the thermos to get warm water for tea; she reached past him for the tin of dried mint. Their elbows tangled; Evan's hand settled at her waist to steady her. She inhaled, the scent of iron and pine sap mingling with the warm rustle of his breath at her temple.
"Let me," he murmured, fingers closing over hers to tilt the leaves into the pot. When he didn't release her right away, Sura turned slightly—enough to bring their faces a whisper apart.
"For a man built for forward motion," she said quietly, "you have a surprising knack for hovering."
Evan's reply vibrated against her skin. "Some moments deserve a longer look."
When the tea had steeped, they carried two dented mugs to the stable and stood side by side, watching Molly crunch grain. The pony's ears flicked as the last light painted the stall door amber.
"Remember Maim's draft horse?" Sura asked, leaning into the wooden rail. "The one that tried to sit on your lap during the mountain sortie?"
Evan huffed a laugh. "I remember you laughing so hard your stitches popped."
"I paid you with two hours of silence after Mike re-stitched me."
"Best bargaining chip you ever had." He nudged her elbow. She nudged back.
The sky was bruised to violet. They returned inside and banked the coals until only a soft ember glow remained. Sura doused the lantern but left a single candle burning in the kitchen niche. Its light carved gold bands along Evan's jaw.
The candle in the kitchen niche had burned low, shrinking to a stub no larger than a soldier's thumb. Each time the draught slid down the chimney flue it bent the flame sideways, and the flame—still stubborn—righted itself, flared, then dwindled. With every bow and rise, the Hollow gained new shadows: sharp-edged, long-fingered, constantly reshaping the walls that once felt sure.
Evan sat at the rough bench beneath that unsteady light, shoulders leaning into the cool stone, mug cupped between both palms. The tea had long since cooled to a bitter skin on the surface, but the cup's faint warmth anchored him—something real, something that would not move when the room's geometry seemed intent on drifting.
In the darkness of the Hollow, when once sight dimmed and senses faltered, thought seized the reins.
He closed his eyes just long enough to invite the images that had lurked all evening:
'Run, Evan. Inform the baron that the cipher is lost,' Mairn's dying cry echoed.
Mairn must have known the conspiracy ran deeper, he reasoned, yet she sent me straight to Godred—why?
Then Godred's voice rose, crisp as steel: "Evan von Drakos, by authority of the Concord, I charge you with treason." Why had the baron come alone—no guards, no witnesses—if not to silence him without record?
The candle hissed. He opened his eyes. The Hollow remained unchanged, yet it felt altered. Candlelight gilded dust lines, turned Sura's discarded quill to a dagger of orange light. On the far bench she knelt over her satchel, binding little bundles of herbs with hair-fine twine. Each time she bent, her braid swept the flame's aura, flashing vermilion.
Evan watched, questions rolling beneath his ribs like dice in a cup.
Her back stayed straight despite fatigue; her hands moved with a surgeon's thrift. If she was playing him, she played a long, patient game—staying when flight would have been safer, weeping tears that felt real against his tunic. Yet good spies could fake tremors, even devotion.
The candle guttered, bowing to extinction before it rallied. Sura glanced up, met his stare; her hazel eyes caught the light, spangling bronze.
"You're turning the tea to ice," she murmured. "Talk to me, Evan. Silence is—sharp tonight."
He set the mug down, forced a smile. "Mind was wandering."
"To Rivermark?" She slipped the final bundle into her pouch and crossed to his bench. The wood dipped as she sat; their knees brushed again—echo of the afternoon.
"Rivermark. Kestel. The Concord," he said. "Trying to fit puzzle corners."
She tucked a stray wisp behind her ear. "And?"
"Every edge is knife-sharpened." He leaned forward, forearms on thighs; the candle striped warm bars across his throat.
Sura's gaze held his. Neither moved to break the contact. Outside, first-night wind hissed through elder branches, and the Hollow seemed to breathe with them. Questions still prowled Evan's mind, but for now he leashed them, letting wary trust walk beside doubt.
Because in flickering half-light, with old walls guarding dangerous secrets, there was strength in another heartbeat against his. And until the shards spoke, that had to be enough.