The war tent smelled like wet canvas, ink, and the kind of fear that tried to hide behind discipline.
The bound Walker sat on their knees like they were praying.
Not trembling. Not sweating. Not pleading.
Just… waiting.
The robe ties were cut away now. Under the cloth, bone shards were strapped against the Walker's chest in a careful pattern—too careful to be madness. The shards looked old. Polished. Stained. Some still had faint scratches like writing.
And they were warm.
Not burning-hot.
Warm like embers that had learned patience.
Rhaen sat on a stool with a cloth pressed against her ribs. Lira's hands had wrapped her like a problem that needed to be solved, not pitied. The Sea‑Glass operative stood behind her, slate held close, eyes never leaving the Walker.
Cerys remained near the tent flap, half-shadow, half-knife. Her red hair was tied back, her face empty in the way only trained people could manage.
Serelith leaned near the table, posture lazy, gaze sharp.
