Mention of death was precisely where Irene had been walking on eggshells when it came to Felix.
She knew that if she mentioned the ones she lost, it would imply he had to talk about those he lost as well. It was easier to live alongside one another as two deeply scarred humans who silently acknowledged each other's trauma and nothing more than that.
However, the ale made Felix conversational. Even though he seemed more lighthearted, it also made him more introspective.
It wasn't the first time he used drinking late at night to soothe his wounds.
Irene looked down at the sword Felix mentioned. It was the arming sword she was given to replace the small dagger she used at first. She had grown since then, but it was still a suitable fit. She hadn't grown much more while everyone else had far surpassed her in size—even Leif had before he passed.
"My sword is a better fit for me," she admitted. "The handle has been worn where I like to hold it. I… ah."
