I don't know how to respond to that. Don't know if acknowledging the shift makes it real or just makes memore vulnerable when everything inevitably falls apart. So I just grunt noncommittally and keep sorting herbs, letting her interpretation stand without confirmation or denial.
She laughs—actually laughs—at my non-response. "You're as bad as the orcs with communication sometimes."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you avoid feelings like they're contagious." She leans forward, expression softening. "Serah, it's okay to admit you're healing. To acknowledge that maybe things here aren't as terrible as you expected."
The statement lodges in my chest, uncomfortable and accurate. Because she's right. Things aren't terrible here. The Bone Warriors haven't hurt me, haven't chained me, haven't done any of the thousand brutal things I anticipated. They've been... kind. Respectful. Human, almost, except not human at all.
And one of them in particular has been making it very difficult to maintain proper emotional distance.
I shove that thought away before it can take root.
"I'm just sorting herbs," I mutter. "Don't read into it."
"Of course not." But Lola is still smiling, clearly reading into absolutely everything, and I resist the urge to walk out just to prove I'm not that predictable.
Instead I keep working, letting the familiar motions settle the discomfort her observations stirred up. Separating petals, crushing stems, the methodical tasks that require attention without demanding emotional processing.
Lola starts humming while she works—some melody I don't recognize but that sounds Prothekian, all minor notes and haunting progressions. It should grate on my nerves. Should feel intrusive.
Instead it's just... nice. Peaceful, even.
When she accidentally knocks over a jar of ground root powder, sending pale green dust across the table, we both freeze. Then she starts laughing—this ridiculous, snorting laugh that's completely undignified—and despite myself, I crack a smile.
"Smooth," I comment dryly.
"Very graceful," she agrees, still giggling while trying to clean up the mess. "Zurkar's going to kill me. This stuff takes forever to prepare."
"We could just sweep it back into the jar. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."
Her eyes widen in mock horror. "Are you suggesting we contaminate medicinal supplies with floor debris?"
"I'm suggesting we're practical about minor disasters."
"You're terrible," she declares, but she's grinning. "Absolutely corrupting."
The easy banter surprises me. Not because it's happening—Lola has been working toward this kind of comfort for weeks—but because I'm participating. Actually engaging instead of just tolerating her presence.
It feels dangerous. Feels like opening doors I've kept locked for good reason.
But when she makes another joke about Zurkar's potential reaction, I laugh. Actually laugh, the sound rough and unfamiliar in my own throat.
And it doesn't destroy me.
Zurkar doesn't mindmy presence in the healing chambers. Doesn't treat me like I'm underfoot or useless or taking up space better utilized by actual clan members. He just... allows me to be there. To learn. To work alongside Lola with the same patient instruction he shows her.
It's disorienting.
"The zabilla plant," he explains one afternoon, holding up a thick succulent leaf, "grows exclusively in desert regions. The gel inside treats burns and speeds wound healing. But you must harvest it carefully—the outer skin secretes an irritant that causes rashes if handled improperly."
I watch him demonstrate the proper cutting technique, blade sliding through the leaf without touching the outer layer. His movements are precise, economical, nothing wasted.
"Try," he instructs, passing me a fresh leaf and knife.
My hands know blades. Know how to cut and slice and defend. But this is different—requires finesse instead of force, control instead of desperation.
The first attempt goes poorly. Gel spills everywhere, my cut too deep and too rushed. Zurkar just retrieves another leaf and gestures for me to repeat.
