Vanessa's P.O.V
The ache of last night's exertion lingered like an old wound. It did not sit only in my muscles but in the fragile places-behind my eyes, at the base of my throat, in the heaviness that weighed my bones. Every breath felt borrowed. Yet when I looked around the packhouse, heard the laughter that rose cautiously over bowls of stew, I knew survival had been purchased, and that mattered more than my weariness.
I sat among them though my appetite failed me. The stew smelled of garlic and venison, but each spoonful turned to ash on my tongue. I forced myself to swallow what I could, not wanting to appear ungrateful. Children darted between benches, their shrill laughter a reminder of what had almost been lost. The sight alone pressed against my chest until it hurt.
For the fir
