The morning bled grey through the east-wing window, cold and uncompromising.
Vane was dressed long before the others woke. He picked up his spear from where it leaned against the wall, his fingers automatically finding their familiar grip. He turned and looked at the room. Nyx was sprawled elegantly across the foot of the bed; Isole was curled tightly on one side; Valerica rested quietly on the other. He mapped the way they had settled in the night, the way the room had organically arranged itself around him while he sat in the dark.
He set the spear back down.
Slowly, Vane sat on the edge of the mattress. And he waited.
