Morning arrived without permission.
Gray light crept through the tall windows of Caleb's quarters, painting pale stripes across the stone floor. I lay awake watching it spread, my right hand resting on my sternum, the new crescent-and-star mark glowing softly in the predawn dark. My body felt scoured clean, emptied and refilled, the way air smells after lightning strikes.
Caleb sat in the chair by the fire. He had not slept.
I knew because every time I surfaced from the shallow, restless drifting that passed for sleep last night, he was there. Not hovering. Not watching me with panic. Just present, one arm resting on the chair's edge, his silver eyes tracking the fire's movement. Standing guard the only way he could, now that the enemy was not at the door but written into the calendar.
