By the third hour after midnight, the storm outside had softened into a steady, whispering drizzle.
Elder Gillian had cleaned the floor, replaced the broken basin with a fresh copper bowl of water, and departed with Caleb to prepare a restorative broth in the lower kitchen. Jaxon, overcome by the emotional weight of the night, lay fast asleep on the padded bench near the hearth, wrapped securely in Caleb’s heavy military cloak.
In the center of the room, Max sat on the edge of the cot.
He had not closed his eyes for a single second. The skin on his forearms was marked with fresh red scratches from Elena’s frantic grip, and his gray tunic was damp with sweat and cold water. Yet his large, calloused hands moved with rhythmic, tireless precision, wringing out the linen cloth and cooling he
