The morning light did not feel like a reprieve; it felt like an interrogation. It spilled across the floorboards of the cottage in harsh, slanted bars, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the stagnant air.
Mailah woke before Grayson, her limbs feeling heavy, as if she were recovering from a long illness. She lay still, staring at the ceiling beams. The cottage was silent—devoid of the rhythmic, pulsing thrumming that had threatened to tear their world apart the night before. But the silence didn't feel like peace. It felt like a vacuum, a space where something immense had recently departed.
She turned her head. Grayson was lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. Even in sleep, the tension was carved into his jawline. The sword was gone, but the impression of the hilt was still visible on his palm.
