When Northen opened his eyes the next morning, the fire had long died.
He blinked against the faint dawn light filtering through the infirmary's high windows, then sat up—head pounding.
Disorientation.
Again.
He looked around, chest tight. A scent lingered in the air—smoke, herbs, something faintly floral.
Someone had been here.
Someone important.
His fingers twitched.
Then he noticed the gauntlet.
Removed. Sitting neatly beside his cot.
He frowned and reached for it. As his palm wrapped around the worn leather, his breath caught.
Something was carved into his skin.
A curve. No, a symbol.
His heart thudded. He didn't remember doing it.
But it was fresh. Precise. Familiar.
He stood slowly and turned toward the secured infirmary wing.
A rune-lock flickered blue as he keyed in
