The sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Havenwood dining hall, filling the room with heat. The warm smell of stewed root vegetables and freshly baked bread lingered in the air.
Dozens of young wooden spoons clattered against bowls, accompanied by the chaotic, ringing noise of thirty orphans talking all at once. Small feet kicked under the long benches, laughter echoed up toward the exposed rafters, and the general clamor of everyday life filled every corner of the hall.
At the center table, Philia sat straight-backed, holding a carved wooden spoon in his right hand.
Every tiny movement was a slow exercise in agony. Beneath his high-collared, heavy wool tunic, the thick cotton bandages Valen had pressed tightly against his ribs, making every breath uncomfortable. The deep tear on his left side throbbed with a rhythmic, hot pulse, pulling taut across his skin every time he took a breath slightly too deep.
