The sun rose, but Elara did not reach for the pen.
She moved through the morning like someone with too much energy and nowhere safe to put it.
She heated water until the steam clouded the small kitchen, then distributed the rations without a word.
Alistair watched her from across the common area, leaning against the weapon rack. He recognized what she was doing.
'She's been at it since dawn. That's not cleaning, that's just avoiding.'
He had seen the same thing in soldiers the night before something irreversible – the need to keep the hands busy so the mind doesn't have to sit still.
By the time she swept the entryway for the second time that week, the broom was scraping against the stone with unnecessary force.
The sound carried through the base, sharp and rhythmic.
Due seemed to notice it as well. He settled deeper into his chair, his attention on the threads between his fingers.
