In the dim, candlelit hush of the tunnels, the little refuge Aldric had built for emergencies felt almost like a cottage, warm, if a little lonely. The air smelled faintly of herbs and smoke from the small fire crackling under the iron pot. He stirred the soup once more, tasted it, and let out a quiet breath. It was good. Simple, but good.
Carrying the tray carefully, he walked to the adjoining room, a narrow space where Sylvia lay asleep on the narrow bed. Her face, softened by sleep, was pale but peaceful. The fever had finally broken. He set the tray down beside her and knelt by her side.
The wound on her abdomen had been deep, but clean. He had stitched it himself, hands trembling, every drop of blood feeling like a countdown to losing her. But the medicine had done its work; her breathing was steady now, her lips no longer ghostly white.
