She was pacing again. Back and forth across the narrow stretch of dirt between the campfire and the tree line, her boots kicking up dust. The sparks from the flames caught in her hair, turning black strands into threads of molten copper every time she passed into the light.

“They think they know everything,” she muttered, not to me, not even to herself, but to the air that wouldn’t talk back. “Like I’ve already been weighed and measured, and it’s not enough.”

Her hands flexed at her sides — too tense to be still, too angry to hide it. I’d seen her in battle, all sharp reflex and controlled rage. This was worse. This was a wound no blade could parry.

“They don’t know you,” I said.

She stopped. Turned. The look she gave me was almost laughable — like I’d just suggested the sky wasn’t blue. “That’s the point. They don’t care to.”

I leaned back on my elbows, the fire warm against my shins. “Because listening is harder than talking. Everybody wants to judge, but nobody wants to listen.”

Her eyes flickered. Just for a moment, like I’d caught her off guard. And Saints help me, I liked the way it looked on her. Like she actually cared what I said.

“They’d still find a way to hate me,” she said quietly.

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But they’d have to try harder.”

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and something softer — the faint trace of whatever she’d washed her hair with days ago. She turned away again, pace slower this time. I didn’t push. She didn’t need another voice talking at her.

She just needed someone to listen.