The morning air felt cool and clean, a welcome balm after the suffocating heat of the fever. Amara woke feeling weak but clear-headed, the persistent ache in her head finally a distant throb. The world, though still the same dense, green jungle, seemed sharper, more vivid. She could smell the damp earth, the rich, sweet scent of wild flowers, and the faint tang of woodsmoke from the dying embers.
She was still on the pilot’s lap, her head cradled in the crook of his arm, a makeshift pillow. He was asleep, finally, his face relaxed, devoid of its usual intensity. Melita was tucked against his other side, her tiny hand clutching his shirt. He was their anchor, their protector, and even in sleep, his presence radiated a primal strength that was utterly compelling.
Amara carefully shifted, e
