Long after the silence of the slave quarters had settled like a heavy blanket, Elara remained awake.
Around her, the other slaves had succumbed to exhaustion, their breathing a chorus of soft snores and shivering sighs.
The small fire in the center of the chamber had died down to glowing embers, casting long, ghostly shadows across the stone walls.
The cold crept in through the cracks, biting and relentless, a familiar enemy that usually kept everyone awake with its misery.
Yet for once, Elara barely noticed it.
She lay on her thin, straw-filled mattress, staring at the dark wooden ceiling above her.
Sleep refused to come.
Every time she closed her eyes, the darkness was filled not with nightmares, but with him.
Vaelith.
Not Commander Vaelith.
Not the terrifying figure who marche
