Thalatha woke before the light. Soldiers do. The crack held their warmth like a cupped hand. Her body checked itself the way a quartermaster checks a shelf: spine, ribs, hips, straps. The chair bit less than yesterday. Stone had stopped arguing with her lower back. Good.
They were still entangled. Her forearm curved at Mikhailis's waist. His palm rested on her wrist, politely heavy, the way a hand rests on a ledger to keep a breeze from turning the page. The marsh gel had dried to a matte cradle along their edges. It made their outlines soft, like chalk rubbed once with a thumb.
She did not pull away. She measured the nearness. Not a trap. Not a mistake. A correct answer to a cruel room. Her breath found the Anchor's faint tick without warning, then matched it, then stayed there. Irritating. Also a relief. Her lungs had memorized his cadence.
