He isn’t overly surprised to find her there come morning. His bones still ache like hollowed sockets, brittle as bark beneath his skin, eyes stinging from the memory of spent salt; his movements are stiff when he shifts to rising, shoulders first— and glancing around the wretched mess of his own handiwork, he realizes there’s no chance of finding where the kettle’s gone.

Or if it’s intact enough to be used.

With one thin sigh let out through his nose, narrow and withering, he reaches back to tug his shirt into place over the span of his old scars, clutching it rather than bothering with lacing.

“Open it.” He murmurs hoarsely, tipping his head towards the package she’d ignored. The only thing left untouched, save for a single longsword propped just beside the table: pitch dark blade tinged a distinctive blue at its edge.

“Or I’m going to start thinking you don’t want it.”