I walked into the packhouse with my brother in my arms, his body unnaturally light, as if the years of suffering had hollowed him out. Several heads turned, their gazes lingering, heavy with silent questions I had no patience to answer. Their stares felt like weights pressing against my back, but they didn’t matter. Not now.
The familiar scent of charred wood and simmering stew filled the air, grounding me for a fleeting moment before my focus sharpened. The one person I knew would have my back in this sat at the kitchen table, her posture rigid, her hands resting in front of her as if bracing herself for whatever came next.
Our eyes met as I stopped at the door, her vivid green gaze flickering downward to the frail teen cradled in my arms. The slight furrow in her brow told me she was a
