Piltovian scientists have found that a humanoid's sense of smell is universally connected closely to memory. Some scents have the power to awaken memory at even the slightest provocation in individual.

Soraka remembers this fact as she sits before the hearth. She'd read it in a throwaway article once upon a time. How long had it been since she'd been gone from her grove? A month? Three months? A year?

The starchild doesn't know. All she knows is that the flames that dance before her are far from comforting, even with the presence of another beside her. Draven's babbling had long fallen on deaf ears.

For instead, she simply stares, amber reflecting gold as the tongues of inferno stretch and spread their fiery limbs.

An ear flicks as it crackles. In Soraka's mind, it echoes back as a snap of bone. The heat is unwelcome, suffocating and reminiscent of watching all that one loves burn. Underneath the roar of the fire, logs are twisted and eaten at by hungry tongues of flame, and she shudders to think that the Noxians did the same to her people.

The smoke reeks of flesh and carnage to her, and the starchild's stomach drops as the screams of innocents echo in her ears.

Soraka hadn't noticed it when his voice had trailed off, and is only brought to a more pleasant reality when a strong arm hooks itself around her comparatively frail shoulders. Those flighty eyes of hers steal a glance towards the executioner's face, and even if his eyes are facing forwards and his chest is puffed out with easy confidence, a part of her hopes that Draven is concerned.

He doesn't even budge when Soraka's weight presses itself against his side. She earns a laugh from him, and the starchild thinks it's the loveliest sound she's heard yet.

"Watch it with that horn, girlie."

An eye sneaks itself open, and she elbows his side softly in response. Maybe even the Glorious Executioner had his own demons. After all, he was still mortal, was he not?

Relaxing under his grip, Soraka exhales comfortably as she feels herself melt against Draven's side. The faint smell of fur and skin tickles her nose. Draven laughs, but it's lower this time. In the dark of the inn, the starchild feels her anxieties loosen their hold on her mind, if by a little bit.

When was the last time someone had held her like this?

Soraka's mind wanders, and she finds herself wondering if goodwill dwells even in the hearts of executioners.