Ryon woke to the hush of night and the scent of smoldering herbs. The canvas roof of the southern war camp's healer's tent sagged low above him, flickering lamplight stretching shadows into long fingers across its fabric. Pain stitched his body in ragged patterns, but it was dulled, muffled, as though the world had decided not to crush him all at once.
He shifted, a hiss leaving his throat.
"Don't," a soft voice murmured.
Lyria sat at his side, her silver hair catching the dim light, her hands clasped tightly together as if she feared he might dissolve before her eyes. She looked exhausted, eyes rimmed in red, lips pressed thin. Yet her gaze softened the moment it met his, and for an instant, he felt younger again, as though they were children leaning on one another against the world's cruelty.
"Brother…" she whispered the word like a curse, like a tether she hated yet could not sever. "You should not have risen so quickly. The healers said—"
