Seraphine's POV
Zoey woke me in the morning with a wooden cup of cold water. The room held that deep, early silence that feels fragile. My body accepted the drink with both relief and discomfort. Under the bandage, the wound felt like a dull ember—warm, swollen, and foul-smelling. Zoey looked at the edges of the cloth but said nothing. She set the cup aside just as the healer’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Elias entered with calm, practiced movements. A linen satchel hung from his shoulder, gloves in his hand. He acted as if the room was already in order, and only people ever caused disorder.
“Good morning, Seraphine. No long speeches. I’ll check the bandage first, then we can talk if you still have the strength,” he said, already untying the knot gently.
When he lifted the band
