The silence wasn't heavy, it was taut. Like thread stretched between two sharp things. Not tension between them. Tension between them and everything else.
They passed the corner where someone had hung a charm above their door, a crooked bundle of sage and black string, scorched at the edge. Leftover fear disguised as tradition.
Lindarion's boots struck the frost in slow, even beats. His shoulders ached again. Not from fighting. From holding back.
Ren didn't look at him. Not directly. But she glanced just once, when they turned the path behind the inn, where the snow thinned and the outer rooms overlooked the slope of the woods.
"You're shaking."
He wasn't.
But the air around him was different now. It pulsed once, then stilled. Heat on a leash.
They reached the stairs.
The upper level creaked under their boots, the sound climbing ahead of them.
Lindarion's hand hovered over the door.
He didn't open it yet.
There was a glow behind the wood.
Dim. Pulsing.
Not orange.
