The morning sun was a cruel master.
It did not care that Vaelith had spent the night pacing the floor until his boots wore holes in the rug.
It did not care that his eyes felt as though someone had filled them with sand, or that his head thudded with the rhythm of a dying drum.
He sat by the window, a cup of cold tea untouched in his hand, staring out over the gray valley.
He looked like a corpse that had been asked to walk.
Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his jaw was clenched so tight it ached, and his patience had evaporated hours ago.
Behind him, the bed shifted.
Elara stirred.
She stretched, the heavy linen sheets pooling around her waist.
She looked rested.
Soft.
Safe.
The contrast between her peace and his own jagged, sleepless misery was a physical weight
