The space beside her was cold.
Emery woke to it every morning now—that hollow where Zekar should have been. Her hand reached instinctively for him before her eyes even opened, fingers searching for warmth that was not there. The bed was empty, the sheets too smooth, too flat. Her body had memorized the weight of him, the curve of his shoulder, the press of his hand against hers, and now the absence echoed like a hollow drum in her chest.
But the dragon-glass was warm. Always warm. She touched it first thing, as she had every morning since he had marched away, pressing the shard to her lips, inhaling its quiet heat, letting it remind her that he was alive, that he was thinking of her, that he would return.
Alive. Thinking of me. Coming back.
