Oh, that. Syrlya blinks owlishly as her worries echo through his head.

And then his form almost crumples wearily, like it can't keep the weight up anymore. It aches, and he can't keep any assurance in his expression as he gaze drifts off and loses focus like he isn't even looking through his eyes anymore. It's a little hollow. "Because we don't know how many victories it will take before it's over."

Defeating the Mother of Invention opened possibilities for their future, but no guarantees. Syrlya's very familiar with lack of satisfaction in winning a battle when you realize you're racing the clock for an even bigger problem with plans you can barely scrape together in time. When the end feels farther away despite it because new threats you didn't even know where hiding in the shadows come out. When every single victory comes with a cost, and you don't know if you have enough to lose to survive it. This was one of his cleaner successes--at least it didn't cost any of them their lives.

He never really stops thinking about it, either, how much more there is to do.