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Dusekkar sat quietly on the soft pile of pillows and blankets arranged across the floor, positioned just beside the nest that Shedletsky had moved down from the bed. The nest was uneven and imperfect, but it was large enough to hold four people if they stayed close together. It looked more like something built out of instinct than logic.
He had let out a slow, tired sigh.
His thoughts drifted back to how his dear friend had been lately—constantly tense, overwhelmed, and struggling to keep control of his emotions. Shedletsky barely slept anymore, and when he did, it was restless and filled with sudden movements and half-formed words spoken in dreams. Because of that, Shedletsky had insisted that Dusekkar, Builderman, and Taph stay with him for a few nights.
Not because he wanted company.
But because he was afraid of being alone.
So, with Taph’s help, Dusekkar and Builderman had watched as Shedletsky worked tirelessly to create a nest large enough for all four of them on the floor. He had dragged pillows from chairs, blankets from the bed, and even spare cloaks from storage until the pile was thick and warm enough to resemble something safe.
Now, hours later, the result of that effort lay before Dusekkar.
Builderman was pressed awkwardly against the wall, clearly having been pushed there in his sleep. He was trying to lie on his side, his back slightly curved as if he had long since given up on comfort. It had to be difficult sleeping that way—especially when sharing space with two avians who had absolutely no understanding of personal boundaries once they were unconscious.
Taph, meanwhile, looked almost like a small child wedged between Builderman and Shedletsky, even though she was far from short. Her wings were stretched wide, feathers loosely draped over both of them like a living blanket. They rose and fell slowly with her breathing, soft and steady.
Shedletsky held her tightly—but carefully—as if she were something fragile. One arm was wrapped securely around her shoulders, the other resting against her back. His grip wasn’t painful or rough, but it was desperate in its own quiet way.
As if she might disappear if he loosened it.
As if, when morning came, she would be gone if he did not keep her close through the night.
Their faces were calm now. No tension. No fear. Just sleep.
They looked… peaceful.
Like they had finally been granted permission to rest.
As if, after weeks—perhaps even years—of stress, fear, and constant survival, they had found a small moment where the world had stopped pressing in on them.
A moment to breathe.
Dusekkar released another slow sigh at the sight. The sound barely escaped his lips as he reached out carefully and ran his hand through Taph’s feathers. They were warm beneath his fingers, softer than he remembered. He tried not to look too closely at the faint, healed scars that crossed her back.
He pretended they were not there.
Instead, he kept his eyes on the gentle rise and fall of their chests, listening to the quiet rhythm of three sleeping breaths in the room.
After a long while, he looked away and began to study the cabin around them.
His gaze lingered on the empty space where Shedletsky normally kept his sword. It leaned unused against the wall, too far away to reach in case of danger.
The bed stood nearby, forgotten and untouched. It had been too small for four people, so it remained empty now, its blankets folded neatly but abandoned.
Builderman’s sweater lay crumpled over a chair, stained with oil and dirt from days of work that never truly ended.
Taph’s cloak and layered clothing were draped across another chair, carefully placed aside so she could sleep more comfortably.
Everything in the room felt temporary.
Like none of them truly believed they would stay here long enough for it to matter.
Dusekkar’s eyes moved next to the doors.
Then the windows.
Then the corners of the room where the lantern light did not fully reach.
He checked each shadow.
Each crack of moonlight.
Each quiet sound of the wind outside.
He knew he needed sleep.
His body ached for it.
But he could not bring himself to close his eyes.
Dusekkar still remembered that day.
The day he had fallen asleep in a place that was meant to be safe.
He had woken up in this forsaken realm—confused, angry, and afraid. His heart had raced as panic set in, and for a moment, he had believed he had been abandoned.
He remembered the others rushing to him, trying to calm him down, struggling to explain what had happened.
They had spoken gently.
But their eyes had betrayed them.
They had been afraid too.
Ever since then, sleep has become something dangerous.
Something that left him vulnerable.
Since being brought to this realm while he was unconscious and defenseless, Dusekkar barely rested at all. Instead, he wandered the small settlement at night, keeping watch over everything and everyone.
Listening.
Waiting.
Making sure nothing could hurt them while they slept.
It had become instinct.
Duty.
With Shedletsky’s instincts scrambled and his stress growing heavier by the day, Dusekkar knew he would stay close for as long as it took.
A few nights, at least.
Maybe more.
He shifted slightly, settling down near the edge of the nest, careful not to wake anyone. His back rested against the wall, his arms folded loosely as his eyes remained fixed on the three figures sleeping before him.
If danger came…
He would be the first to see it.
And until then, he would remain awake.
Watching.
Guarding.
So they could rest.