The sound of her crying doesn’t rise. It sinks. Low. Quiet. Broken in a way that doesn’t ask to be heard, but forces itself into the bones anyway.
I’ve heard screams on battlefields.
Men torn open. Wolves howling as they bled out under my command.
None of it... None of it sounds like this. Because this isn’t pain from an enemy. This is pain that learned to survive in silence.
And I... I am part of the reason it had to.
My feet feel rooted to the ground. Not by command. Not by discipline. But by something far worse, understanding.
The healer doesn’t move to comfort her. Doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t interrupt. She lets it happen.
Lets Willow fall apart without stopping it. Because this isn’t breaking This is exposure.
And I am forced to stand here and witness it. Every second of it.
W
