Rumbling thunder wakes us at dawn. It’s hard to tell it is dawn. The clouds overhead are heavy, dark, writhing with promises of horror.
isAsher spent his watch shift transplanting the starmoss into the empty sylphmilk bottle. The glowing fronds now brush the left side of the curved glass. We have our navigation tool.
“It’s time to tend to your arms,” says Valen.
I’m not looking forward to peeling off my layers. Apart from being frozen, I don’t want to look at my wounds. The ache is dull but persistent. If I keep my arms limp at my sides, sometimes I can’t even feel it.
But Valen comes up behind me and runs his hands over my shoulders, helping me shrug off my overcoat. The touch sparks a tempest in my heart as I recall last night’s conversation.
I try to remind myself this is wrong. Me
