For days, for over a week through Christmas and New Year, there's nothing. She sleeps most of the time, a burnt-out exhaustion that dying didn't reset. If she feels the pain of death tolling, there's no sign. If she hears his voice, there's no sign.

Her mind against his is just as static. The link remains. If anything, it's stronger now. But it's like a door opening to empty space. Nothing comes back of what he gives her.

Until one time there is a quiet tremor of panic, when a door is shut too loudly in the cabin.

The man in gold stepping out of a thundercrack, the light he radiates slicing through fighters like shards of glass, cutting them to pieces-