Three little words. Barely anything in the grand scheme. Three tiny words that are exactly what Krok needs to hear right now.

I forgive you.

He slides off the sofa to his knees on the floor, still hanging onto Fulcrum, but it's relief dragging him down, and though his sigh is thin and uneven, it's exhaustion, not anguish. He barely even hears Fulcrum cracking a joke at his own expense; he's too busy saying thank you.