She was not okay. She was pretty far from okay, actually. But she was handling it. She had no choice, and she wouldn't burden her father with her insanity right off the bat.
She found a small smile, and she reached a hand out to touch his face, despite a niggling fear that he'd disappear, like a shattered illusion, the moment she touched him. But he didn't disappear; he remained solid and warm to her ice cold fingers.
"I'm okay, Daddy," she said softly. "And you...you look really good." Had he had some kind of therapy, while she was away? Magical healing? "And that looks good on your hip, where it belongs." She let her eyes drift to the sword, one of three, wielded by an elite group of righteous men known as the Knights of the Cross.