Torvin sat down.
Not carefully. Not the deliberate lowering of an old man managing a bad leg. He sat down the way people sat down when their legs made the decision before their mind did, finding a fallen log at the edge of the trees and dropping onto it with the full weight of someone who had just had something confirmed that they had spent years hoping would stay theoretical.
Elara watched him.
In the short time she had known Elder Torvin she had seen him calm under fire, steady in a stone shelter with rogues above them, composed while explaining things that should have broken her. She had started to think of his composure as structural. Something load-bearing.
Watching it crack was not a small thing.
"Which pack," he said. His voice was still level. The composure was cracked, not go
