Aramith sat on the edge of his bed, hands running over his face before he pushed himself up. The ache in his limbs had dulled, but the weight in his chest remained. He needed to get cleaned. Mozrael had already gone to do the same.
Slow steps took him to the washbasin. He splashed cold water on his face, watching droplets roll down his pale skin as he gripped the porcelain edges. His reflection stared back, thinner than before, dark strands of hair falling over tired eyes. He exhaled sharply, as if trying to shake off the heaviness clinging to him, and reached for the towel.
By the time he had dressed, a soft knock sounded at his door.
"Aramith?" Mozrael's voice was quiet but steady.
He turned, watching as the door creaked open and she stepped inside. She looked... relieved, maybe even a little hesitant.
"I'm going to join Mother and Father for breakfast," she told him, her hands clasped together. "Yours is on the way."
A small kindness, no pressure.
