Morning came slowly, reluctantly, the grey light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains, a pale, washed-out imitation of a real sunrise.
Rache had barely slept.
Every creak of the floorboards, every distant shout, every gust of wind against the window had sent her heart racing, her mind conjuring images of assassins lurking in the shadows, of dark magic coiling in the air like smoke.
The burn on her neck was a constant, throbbing reminder of the previous night's events. The medic's salve had helped, but the pain was still there, a dull, persistent ache that made it hard to find a comfortable position.
Darry, bless his heart, had slept peacefully curled up against her side, his soft snores a comforting counterpoint to the frantic beating of her own heart. He was oblivious to the danger, a small, warm, innocent creature in a world that was anything but.
She envied him.
