The room had gone quiet, the lamp on the nightstand burning low. At some point, Lyra had tucked me into bed, brushing my hair back like an older sister would, and stayed until my eyelids grew too heavy to fight. I drifted into sleep, cocooned in warmth and exhaustion, the ache in my cheek fading into something distant.
The door creaked open hours later. Quiet footsteps crossed the room, deliberate, careful. I stirred faintly but didn’t wake, not until the bed dipped under a new weight and a rough, trembling hand brushed against mine.
“Veyra…” The whisper was hoarse, strained with emotion.
“Gods, forgive me.”
My lashes fluttered, and I blinked into the half-dark. Varion was there, sitting on the edge of my bed, his face shadowed but his eyes sharp with torment. He looked like a man who
