As she wanders through the tower Aven is fifteen all over again, still the same lost child with nowhere to run.  She understands, conceptually, that all hope is not lost—but this business of knowing doesn’t make coping with quiet moments any easier.  The emotionless mask she’s been hiding behind for decades really is just that: a facade.  It’s hard not to fall back into the worn habit of doubting and fearing.  She put on a brave face yesterday when she talked to Silver, so where was that bravado now?  It’s only the second day but soon the week will fly by before she even knows it.  Then the next, and the next...

Aven blinks.  There’s someone here with her.  A tiny voice in her head, one that suspiciously sounds like a mothering stylist, whispers to go and say hello.  “... Cripes?” she calls out.  “Are you alright?”  Before all of this she’s pretty sure that she’s barely talked to him at all.  Even so, she still walks towards the older victor, steps slow and even.