The first thing Zekar heard was Ryker breathing.
He knew that sound the way he knew his own heartbeat—the slight catch on the exhale, the way it always came a little too fast when Ryker was trying not to show how worried he was. Zekar had heard it in burning villages and pitch-dark caves and the quiet hours before battles he wasn't sure either of them would survive.
He opened his eyes.
Stone ceiling. Torchlight. Furs that smelled of woodsmoke and horses. Ryker's face, hovering closer than it needed to be, red-rimmed eyes giving him away completely.
"You're staring," Zekar said. His voice came out wrong—too rough, scraped down to almost nothing.
Ryker let out a breath that shook at the edges. "You weren't waking up."
"I'm awake now." Zekar tried to sit up. His body said no with such force that for a moment he just lay there, blinking at the ceiling. He tried again, slower, and made it halfway before Ryker's good arm came around his back.
"Slowly."
"I know slowly."
