Marcus woke before the light fully arrived.
It crept in slowly through the warped seams of the cabin, pale and thin, tracing lines across the rough-hewn walls and the floorboards worn smooth by years of boots and seasons. The forest beyond was quiet—no alarm bells, no shouting, no urgency pressing in from the world outside.
For a moment, he lay still, disoriented by the unfamiliar absence of tension.
Then he felt her.
Isolde lay beside him, wrapped in the blanket, her breathing even and deep. Sleep had softened her features, eased the careful control she wore like armor when awake. There was no tension in her shoulders now, no tightness around her mouth. Just rest.
Marcus turned his head slightly, careful not to wake her.
He had seen her composed, furious, calculating, defiant. He had seen her afraid only once—last night—and that memory still sat heavy in his chest, a weight he doubted would ever fully lift.
But this—
This was something else.
