Eira’s POV
Art doesn’t lower his shotgun, but his finger moves off the trigger.
"Weapons are unnecessary," the voice says. It’s calm. Almost bored. "If I wanted you dead, the district would have done it already."
A man steps out of the shadows near the back of the hall. He looks to be in his late fifties. Silver hair, simple wool sweater, weathered hands. He’s carrying a small metal watering can. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion, but they track each of us with absolute clarity.
He walks past Art’s shotgun like it’s a wooden fence post and sets the watering can on a table. A kettle is already steaming on a small cast-iron stove.
"Tea?" he asks.
Draven’s hands are still glowing faintly with heat, but the orange light fades. He looks at the kettle, then at the candles, then at the
