Two and a half days.
That’s how long I’ve been inside the Waystation caravan while the world outside rearranges itself around my name like I’m a legal crisis instead of a person.
Two and a half days of being told to rest.
Two and a half days of being told my mind needs quiet.
Two and a half days of conversations stopping when I walk into earshot.
At first, I played along.
I slept. I drank the bitter herbal draughts Adrian insisted would help my system settle after the Tribunal’s sigil-band suppression. I tolerated Magnus hovering like a moving wall with a pulse. I let Orion talk at me about “strategic timing” like timing had ever saved anyone from a corrupt oath.
I even stopped arguing.
For half a day.
By the end of the first, the care stopped feeling gentle and started feeling or
