Owen woke before the first sun.
He had not slept much. Two hours, maybe three, in fragments. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the silver threads circling, or Tessa's face on the sand, or Wenrik's calm tilt of the head. None of those were images that let a person rest.
He sat up on the cave floor. His left shoulder was stiff. The cut above his eye had scabbed but tugged when he moved. His core ached deep — the slow, hollow pain of something that had been pushed too far. The desolate channeling had cost him more than he'd told the others. He had perhaps twenty percent less channeling capacity today than he had yesterday. Maybe more.
It would have to be enough.
Yalira was awake on the far side of the cave, sharpening her daggers in the half-dark. She did not look up as he stirred, but he knew she had registered the moment he opened his eyes. That was the kind of scout she was.
