The candles had burned low.
Silvain did not remember lighting them.
He only knew that when he finally lifted his head, wax had pooled and hardened along the stone altar like pale scars, the flames guttering weakly as if exhausted by his persistence.
He knelt alone in the prayer chamber of Eastridge Hold, hands clasped so tightly his fingers ached. His back was straight, posture flawless, the way it had been drilled into him since boyhood. The way a priest was meant to kneel—composed, reverent, controlled.
Inside, none of that existed.
"—grant her safe passage," he whispered again, voice hoarse. "Grant her protection. Grant her strength."
The words had lost their edges. He had spoken them too many times.
Outside the thick stone walls, the border town lived in fragments—guards changing shifts, horses stamping in courtyards, the distant murmur of soldiers who had learned to sleep lightly. Eastridge Hold was never truly quiet. Danger pressed too close to allow that luxury.
