As Morwen approached the group gathered near the fallen oak, she could see Lady Cerys lying on a makeshift bed of cloaks and blankets, her face pale and drawn with pain. Sir Cynwrig knelt beside his wife, one hand clasping hers while the other rested protectively on her shoulder. His expression was a complicated mixture of relief, worry, and something that might have been guilt.
Sir Ollie sat a short distance away, leaning heavily against Milo. The flat-tailed warrior had one arm wrapped around the young knight's shoulders, supporting him in a way that spoke of deep familiarity and trust. Ollie's eyes were closed, his breathing slow and careful, and even from a distance Morwen could see the exhaustion that seemed to weigh down every line of his body.
He looked terrible. Worse than terrible. He looked like someone who had been through a battle and barely survived it, though there wasn't a visible wound on him.
