Seraphine's POV
The late-morning sun was higher by the time the broken camp vanished behind us. The horses tugged evenly, the cart creaked through deeper ruts, and the breeze finally swept away the blood-stale air still clinging to my lungs. The bandage around my side was tight—Cassian had it redone before departure—and he’d ordered me to sit still. So I leaned on a folded cloak in the back of the canvas-covered cart.
Darius sat across from me, his sword at his feet, coat collar loosened. A faint line of dried blood—my blood—still crossed the strap at his wrist. He hadn’t hidden it.
Cassian rode alongside us, his silhouette moving in and out of the morning light. The two drivers murmured to each other, one occasionally whistling an old, oddly cheerful tune.
I exhaled and rested my palm
