The morning came in slow and grey, and Alistair did not sleep.
Across the room, Due was patching a thin cut on his own forearm that he had not mentioned having.
Silas was drinking the second cup of broth Elara had pushed into his hands without asking.
The base smelled of clean cloth and old blood.
Elara had cleaned everyone's wounds in silence, the way she did most things that had to do with the body. She had been raised among soldiers, and she knew how to put people back together.
Alistair's left forearm was wrapped, and the cut would close in a week.
His shoulder ached where the heavy attacker's first strike had landed. That would take longer, and he did not say it out loud.
A bird landed on the window ledge an hour after dawn.
It carried the formal Echelon receipt for the declaration document.
Alistair read it once, then he set it down.
"They got the document, and it is in the record," he said.
Due nodded slowly. "Then it is finally real, after all of that."
