His heartcry is heard, resonating with Nari's own like two plucked strings of the same pitch and she reaches out to take Myr's offered hand with a grip that's almost too tight, repeating his voicing of it: "It isn't fair."

She remembers saying the same, the pain in her throat as the words ripped out of it as she'd wept angrily in Korrin's arms, and suddenly she's wondering whether or not anyone's held Myr. Simon, maybe. She'd seen something strung tenderly between them on one of her visits to the room the two Templar shared, and the resonance grew. She didn't know the mage near well enough for the gesture, but grief--this grief--was a shared bedfellow, and Nari was beginning to understand the fleeting chance of connection, the finite nature of their lives. So she stood, and after a brief hesitation released his hand to instead bend and pull him into a tight embrace.

Then, softer this time, "It isn't fair."