She stares forward, unmoving in her suit of plate— the saronite choker around her neck glistens, as if alive under the soft light she stands under. Regarding you mutely, she lacks her previous constant squirming, the way she anxiously rubs her wrists or calloused fingers and the way she always has some quip or something to say— she is so very, very still and quiet.

“Feiyn ain’t changed,” she says in a rasp, as if she’s still got graveyard soil still in her lungs but the glow of her eyes and the stillness of her chest contradict her words.