Morning Unease
Dawn dragged itself across the ridge like a wounded beast.
The night’s smoke still clung to Lena’s hair, sour and heavy, as though the mercenaries’ cries had burned into her skin. She hadn’t truly slept. Dreams had stalked her, waiting each time she shut her eyes.
The camp was already stirring. Edda lay propped against a stone, pale but alive, her side tightly bound with cloth Miraeya had stitched with salt and prayer. Lark sat beside her, staring at the blood on his blade with eyes too wide, too young.
And Dominic—Dominic looked the same as ever. His cloak draped over his shoulders, jaw locked, voice steady as he gave quiet orders. But the mark under Lena’s collarbone beat harder every time he moved, a pulse that whispered of something lodged inside him.
Her gaze caugh
