The figure looked at him for a long moment. The silence stretched between them, filled with everything that would not be said. With the weight of years and choices and consequences that could not be undone.
"That is not what I am here for," he said.
"I know," Ethan said. "Stay close anyway."
He picked up the silver blade. The metal was cold against his fingers, colder than the air around him, cold as something that had never known warmth and never would. It felt alive in his hand, or almost alive, or aware in a way that objects should not be aware.
The shadows at the edge of the clearing deepened. They gathered themselves, pulled inward, became more solid and more present than shadows had any right to be. The cold settled in like it intended to stay, like it had found a home in this small clearing and would not be leaving, not tonight, not ever.
Somewhere in the dark, the figure stood and watched and said nothing more.
Because some choices could not be argued out of.
