In the morning Zoey woke me with a wooden cup: the water was cold, and the room carried that deep silence only the early hours can bear. My body accepted the sip with gratitude and protest at once; beneath the bandage it felt as if a slow, dull ember sat there—not burning, only heating and stinking. Zoey glanced at the edges of the cloth, said nothing, then set the cup aside, for already the dry sound of the healer’s footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Elias entered like a man who knows that every object in the room is in its proper place, and only people are the ones who shift: a linen satchel on his shoulder, gloves in his hand, his movements following the same simple order as yesterday.
“Good morning, Seraphine. I won’t waste words—first we’ll check the bandage, then we can talk if you
