Everic's eyes don't rush. They move slowly, deliberately—sweeping across the room like a detective at a crime scene.
The cushions on the floor—tossed aside, forgotten. The blanket crumpled in a heap, twisted into shapes that speak of restless hands and troubled sleep. The sheets on the bed—tangled, pulled loose from the corners, bunched in ways that suggest more than one body occupied that space.
His gaze lingers there for a moment—just a moment—before moving on.
The first-aid box sits open on the table. Bandages. Cotton buds. A small bottle of antiseptic, its cap still off.
Evidence of something that happened not long ago.
Then his eyes find Silas.
The bandage on his temple—stark white against pale skin. Dried blood—brown now, flaking—still clinging to his face. His nightshirt stained with red, small spots scattered across the white fabric like fallen petals.
Everic's reaction shifts. Not on his face—he's too trained for that. Too polished.
