( He bides his time, rising. She is still wailing, still calling the winds to herself, on the cusp between maelstrom and settling. What she requires now is not intervention but patience — and that, they can offer.

With Jacob beside him, he finds himself reassured not that he will come to his feet — he will always come to his feet — but that someone might watch his back, on the scant likelihood that she decides to shift to the offensive. )

Thank you. ( But breezy, in the way of platitudes, no better than 'Apologies' and 'Think little of it.' Ache makes house in his bones, stretches and roils. Then the qi energies that power so much of his person stitch back flesh and unmake bruises with quiet, stinging pulses of rapid healing.

He brings himself up, cautiously, just as the woman Tykhe recovers, reduced to a familiar litany of sobs. And he does not glance, passing her by. )

Have no care. ( To Jacob. To her. ) There is a second tomb, steps away.