"Right," Sylara muttered. "Obvious. Like breathing water."
A hint of mirth quirked the corner of his mouth—gone before it could count as a smile. "Breathing water only kills you if you forget to filter."
She scrunched her nose. "You're impossible."
"And you're mobile again," he countered, not unkind.
She couldn't argue. Colour seeped back into her cheeks; even vision brightened, as though someone had wiped dew from a lens. Around them, the elves resumed their languid motions—passing dishes, emptying cups—yet their quiet conversation now carried a different cadence. Many sets of evergreen eyes tracked the pair with open curiosity, no longer veiled behind polite disinterest.
A lorekeeper on Draven's right leaned closer to his companion, whisper-signing with quick flicks of slender fingers. Sylara caught only fragments: strength-beyond-skin, traveler-of-gaps. Not insults, but far from complacent praise.
