Valerian climbed into the carriage in silence, his steps slow, like someone still feeling their way through the ruins of what they had endured. The door closed behind him softly, and inside, cold breaths echoed with the scent of fine leather and polished pinewood. A Lockard carriage, like everything that belonged to them, overflowed with order, pride, and secrecy.
Claire was sitting opposite him, her posture upright as always, wearing her dark coat that draped over her shoulders. Her eyes watched him for a moment, but she said nothing, as if waiting for him to look at her first.
He didn't.
He rested his head against the window, his eyes on the stretch of road slick with mist, the wind-horses snorting green steam like suffocated light. The rumble of wheels.
Moments passed, long enough for him to feel the weight of her presence, but she finally spoke, her composed voice never losing its chill, even when it chose gentleness.
"Valerian..."
He didn't turn.
