Back in the infirmary, the silence that followed the heavy thud of the infirmary door seemed to press against the walls. Soren let out a sharp, jagged breath, his hands still trembling from his confrontation with Rowan. He turned back to the bed, ready to finish his task, when a soft, stuttering sound broke the stillness.
It was a wet, hitching noise—the sound of a lung finally pulling in air with intention.
Soren froze. He looked down, and his heart hammered against his ribs. Elian's eyelashes, which had remained deathly still for seven moons, were fluttering against his pale, sunken cheeks.
"Elian?" Soren whispered, his voice cracking.
He dropped the cloth back into the bowl and leaned over him, his hands hovering, afraid to touch him and break the fragile moment.
