The night had given way to dawn by the time Caleb finally rose from the log, his limbs stiff from hours of unmoving contemplation. The embers had long since died out, but the echo of the fire still clung to his clothes, mingling with the scent of blood and pine. He glanced over to where Rowan slept lightly, his chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths. Even in rest, there was tension in his form—a sign that he, too, was still battling ghosts.
Caleb didn’t wake him. Instead, he walked toward the river that ran a short distance from their camp. The morning mist curled above its surface, swirling in delicate tendrils like the thoughts swirling in his head. He knelt beside the water and cupped his hands, splashing his face, letting the cold bite of it center him.
He remembered a time
