Seze shifts beside you, her great wings folding and unfolding once, a soft rumble in her chest. She is still not entirely used to the sea, to the endless blue that stretches beyond the shore. Neither are you, some days. But the stars are the same. They always are.

You hear the approach before you see him. The quiet scrape of bare feet on stone, the rhythm of a hunter's step—measured, careful, but unhurried. He knows you are here. He always knows.

He moves then, stepping past Seze with a soft murmur of greeting to her, and settles onto the rock beside you. Not too close. Not yet. He looks up at the sky, and the starlight catches the curve of his jaw, the quiet tension in his shoulders.