Noel moved the moment the old man's body sagged.

Revenant Fang was set aside without ceremony, the blade's faint hum fading as Noel dropped to one knee beside him. Before he could reach out, shadow shifted low to the ground and Noir slipped free of his silhouette, taking the form of a small wolf pup. She padded forward first, ears alert, nose twitching as she circled the fallen chair and the man slumped against it.

"I've got you," Noel said quietly, hands steady as he helped the old man sit upright. The man flinched when the chair scraped against the stone, discomfort flashing across his face, but Noel kept his grip gentle, patient. They settled him back into the seat at the lighthouse's center, even though his fingers curled into the wood as if it might betray him again.

For a long moment, he just breathed.

Then, hesitantly, he lifted his left arm.

It rose a few inches, trembled, and held.

His eyes widened. He lowered it again, then tried the right. Slower this time. More careful. As if the limb might vanish if he moved it too quickly. After that came his legs—small, awkward kicks into empty air, toes flexing and unflexing while he watched them with something close to disbelief.

He stopped.

Sat there.

Drew in a long, shaking breath.

When he looked up at Noel again, the fear was gone.

What replaced it hit harder.

The old man pushed himself forward without warning, weak but determined, and Noel barely had time to react before thin arms wrapped around his shoulders. The embrace was clumsy, unbalanced, but tight—desperate in a way that needed no words.

He cried.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quiet, broken sobs pressed into Noel's coat, years of isolation leaking out all at once. Noel didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply stayed there and let it happen, one hand resting between the man's shoulder blades, steady and warm.

From the corner of his awareness, Noir sat back on her haunches, tail curled around her paws.

'You've always been like this, dad,' she said softly through the bond. 'You never walk past people who are hurting.'

Heat crept up Noel's neck. He looked away, embarrassed not by the words, but by how exposed the moment felt.

Eventually, the old man pulled back, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robe. His breathing evened out. His hands shook less.

The lighthouse stood quiet around them.

The old man stepped back at last, clearing his throat as if embarrassed by the display. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe, dragging the fabric across reddened eyes, then drew in a slow, grounding breath. When he sat down again, it was by choice this time—not because chains forced him there, but because his legs still weren't ready to trust him.

Noel watched closely, ready to move if he faltered.

The man rolled his shoulders once, then again, testing the joints like someone waking from a long illness. His hands flexed, fingers trembling slightly before settling. He nodded to himself, as if reassured by the simple fact that his body answered him at all.

The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was heavy, but not uncomfortable—like the pause after a storm, when the air hasn't decided what comes next.

Noel broke it by dragging a low table closer with his foot. One of its legs scraped loudly against the stone floor before he steadied it and set it upright. He pulled a chair over and sat across from the old man, posture relaxed but attentive.

"Do you want to eat while we talk?" Noel asked, tone plain. Not pitying. Not overly gentle.

The old man blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. "After… all that?" he asked hoarsely. "You'd still—?"

Noel didn't answer.

He reached into his dimensional pouch and began setting things down on the table instead. Three wrapped rations appeared one by one. He slid one aside for Noir—raw meat, still cool—and placed the other two between himself and the old man. Rice, vegetables, and cooked chicken. Simple. Warm.

Noir padded away with her portion, settling a short distance off, watchful but at ease.

For a moment, the old man just stared at the food. Then he picked it up carefully, like it might vanish if he moved too fast, and began to eat. Slowly at first. Then with more confidence. Each bite seemed to loosen something in him, shoulders sinking lower as the tension drained away.

"I should have introduced myself earlier," he said at last, swallowing. "Forgive me. My name is Theo."

Noel nodded. "Noel. Noel Thorne. I'm from the continent of Valor."

Theo froze mid-bite. "Valor?" He let out a breath that sounded halfway between surprise and disbelief. "That's… far. Much farther than anyone's come here in a long time."

Noel studied him quietly. "How are you feeling?"

Theo considered the question, then gave a tired smile. "Better than I have in years. Weak—but alive." His expression sobered. "You'll have questions. I'll answer everything I can." He hesitated, then added softly, "But I need to ask you something first. Please… help my wife."

Noel didn't rush the response.

"I'll try," he said honestly. "But before anything else, I need the full story. From the beginning. And I need to know how you were watching me when I arrived."

Theo nodded, setting the food down carefully. "Then I'll start at the start," he said. "So I don't leave anything out."

Theo drew a slow breath, eyes drifting past Noel to the narrow window where the sea lay flat and distant.

"I'll begin with the day everything changed," he said quietly. "Almost two years ago now. A ship arrived—one we didn't think twice about at the time. It carried materials, supplies, trade goods. That wasn't unusual for us." A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips. "We traded regularly with Valor, after all. If I remember correctly… it was through the Estermont family. Yes. Them."

His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table.

"That ship came under the same banners. Same routes. Same papers. But this time, there was a girl aboard." He looked back at Noel, gaze heavy. "She wasn't alone. And from the moment she set foot on the island, things stopped following the rules we thought we understood."

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