"That coiled echo the weaver glimpsed—it hums with desolation. How do we know your cure will not scar deeper than the ailment?"
Draven finally responds, and his voice is winter‑clear. "Scars form where wounds were allowed to fester. I don't heal with gentle psalms—I excise corruption, then decide whether flesh can rebuild." He lets the brutal honesty land; it is important they grasp the edge he brings.
Unexpectedly, Sylvanna speaks next, softer than before. "I've seen him cauterize a plague hatchling so it wouldn't infect a village's well," she says. "He didn't ask for thanks. He left before sunrise so they wouldn't fear him. Draven will carve away rot, yes, but he does it because leaving it would be worse." Her gaze sweeps the cage, daring any to call her liar.
The seer in petals tilts her head, veil whispering. "Intent borne of grief is still intent," she intones, as if quoting wisdom older than any of them. "And grief tends to sharp edges."
