Gabriel stood in the empty common room and stared at his hands. Six months of torture. Four years of exile. And still no answers.
He closed his eyes.
Outside, the morning sun continued its slow climb into the sky.
The cut on his palm had reopened during the night. Not deep, just enough to bleed. He'd caught it on a splinter while moving his pack, and the scab had torn away cleanly.
Gabriel pulled out a strip of cloth from his supplies and began wrapping it. Blood welled up faster than expected, dark against his pale skin. He pressed the cloth down and held it there.
Mera entered through the side door with her pack slung over one shoulder. She moved to the centre of the room and set it down carefully, then pulled out the leather-bound book.
"I want to examine it again before we leave," she said without looking up. "See if there's anything I missed."
Gabriel's eyes fixed on the book immediately. That familiar pull settled into his chest, insistent and cold.
