Morning came hard.
Owen woke with his back against stone, neck stiff, the taste of dust in his mouth. The two suns of Prison World had just cleared the horizon, throwing long red shadows across the camp. Gorvax was still asleep beside him, breathing deep and even—the kind of sleep he hadn't managed in weeks.
The Sower looked different now. The blue of his skin had returned to its proper depth. The hollow under his cheekbones had filled out. The deep lines around his mouth had softened, though they hadn't disappeared. His left arm rested across his chest in a relaxed curl rather than the tight wounded clutch of the past several days.
He looked like a man who would live.
Owen sat up slowly. Across the camp, Tessa was already awake, crouched by a small heat-coil, brewing something in a battered tin cup. She looked up as he stirred.
"Morning, False fist"
"Morning."
"Sleep okay?"
"Like a corpse."
