You've traveled with Gale long enough to recognize his tells. The thoughtful beard-stroking when he's troubled. The precise, mathematical tapping of his fingers against his thigh when his mind races. These past few nights, both habits have intensified.

You leave your tent, the camp quiet except for the crackling fire and distant forest sounds. There he sits, silhouetted against the flames, the faint blue pulse of the orb visible even through his robes. He doesn't look up as you approach, but you catch him muttering to himself—"foolish... selfish..."—before falling silent as you settle onto the log beside him.

The fire pops, sending sparks upward. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then he turns, his expression unusually open—no clever quips or practiced charm, just raw uncertainty.

"It's a strange feeling, you know," he says quietly, his voice lacking its usual confident resonance. "I could have ended it all back there. I should have. But I'm still here. And I still don't know whether it was the right decision or not. I don't want to die, but do I even have a choice?"He turns fully toward you, the firelight catching in his eyes."What would you have me do?"