[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/ssxt53R/Thalia-Evercrest.png[/img][/center]
[sub]Location: Eye of the Beholder[right]Interactions/Mentions: Sya ([@PrinceAlexus])[/right][/sub][hr]

[indent] Frigid.

It was the first thing Thalia registered as she drifted toward wakefulness, her consciousness sluggish beneath the oppressive weight of the woolen blankets. The fire in the hearth had long since surrendered to the night, leaving only a bed of ashen embers, their glow extinguished by the creeping chill that had infiltrated the room. Though the inn’s sturdy walls had shielded them from the worst of the storm, they could not keep out the insidious fingers of cold that coiled through the air, settling deep into the marrow of her bones.

She exhaled slowly, her breath blooming pale in the dim, brittle light of the moon outside her window. Or what little of it managed to come through behind the clouds. 

Snow lay heaped against the windowpane, its frost-webbed surface distorting the feeble light that strained to filter through. Beyond it, the world had been swallowed whole—a formless, endless white that smothered the landscape in silence. The storm had left no edges, no contours, only an empty vastness that seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction.

She blinked up at the wooden ceiling, letting herself be still for a moment.

Lark was already awake.

The sheepdog lay curled near the door, his thick coat barely rising with each breath. Though he made no sound, his ears twitched in restless intervals, attuned to the muted stirrings of the inn beyond. Every so often, his nose lifted, nostrils flaring, sifting through the scents that seeped in from the hallway. If there was anything delicious to look forward to, however, Thalia could not say for certain. 

By contrast, her father remained slumped in the chair beside the hearth, boots still on, arms crossed, his face slack with sleep so deep it seemed almost unnatural.

Thalia studied him for a long moment. He must have finally drifted off sometime after she had. She hadn’t expected that.

She shifted under the covers, rolling onto her side as the events of the night before crept back into her mind.

The bells. The lockdown. The guards sweeping through the streets like wolves closing in on a herd.

She had played the part expected of her—sat in stillness, chewed and swallowed, waited in silence. All the trappings of obedience, neatly displayed.

And yet…

The disquiet in her chest had not abated. If anything, it had merely settled deeper, burrowing like a splinter beneath the skin. It was quieter now, but no less present—a realization that had taken root in the dark and refused to be dislodged.

There had been no walls tall enough to keep out danger. No decrees to soften its blow. No whispered reassurances that it would be handled before she ever had to bear witness to it.

She had not been protected.

It was a thought that lingered unpleasantly, like the distant ache of a bruise yet to fully surface.

Thalia pushed the blankets aside, the chill biting at her exposed skin the instant she left their sanctuary. She rubbed at her arms, a futile attempt to chase away the cold, before casting a glance toward Lark. He shifted at the movement, tail thumping once against the floor. He did not rise, but his gaze never left her.

She raked a hand through her tangled red hair, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. The motion sent a shiver down her spine, the chill clinging to her skin where the thick blankets had once shielded her from it. 

Her nightgown—a simple thing of soft, well-worn linen—offered little in the way of warmth, the thin fabric pooling loosely around her frame. It was a far cry from the silks and velvets she had once slept in, the kind embroidered with fine thread and scented with dried flowers pressed between their folds. This was practical, plain—another quiet concession to her new life. 

She traced a finger along the edge of the sleeve absentmindedly before letting her hand fall away. There was no sense dwelling on it. 

Her thoughts turned instead to the night before—to the conversation with Sya, the carefully worded explanations, the way the innkeeper had kept people occupied without ever truly answering the questions lingering beneath the surface.

There had been an attack. Inside the walls of the town. 

That much had been confirmed. But what still gnawed at her was the absence of certainty. The attacker hadn’t been caught. No clear reassurances had been given. Even now, the silence outside felt heavier than it should have—like the town itself was still bracing for something.

For the first time since arriving in Dawnhaven, Thalia found herself wondering whether anyone truly knew what they were doing.

She dragged a hand down her face, releasing a slow exhale.

Speculation wouldn’t get her anywhere.

Instead, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet meeting the cool wooden floor with a muted thump. Lark lifted his head slightly, ears flicking in acknowledgment, but did not rise.

Thalia exhaled, pressing her palms to her knees as she steadied herself.

Breakfast. That was a start. And if nothing else, it was a simple goal she could work with. 
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