Dawn arrived quietly.
Not with birdsong or warmth, but with pale light filtering through thin canvas and the muted sounds of a camp that had not truly slept. The rebellion woke the way wounded animals did—slow, wary, braced for pain before it came.
Hilna stood at the foot of the infirmary cot, arms folded, boots planted firmly in the packed earth.
Vlad lay still.
His chest rose and fell steadily now, no longer shallow, no longer fighting for air. Clean bandages wrapped his torso and arms, layered carefully over scars both new and old. His dark hair clung damply to his forehead, sweat cooling as the fever finally broke.
Alive.
The word did not bring relief the way it should have.
He looked… thinner than she remembered.
