A pale grey dawn seeped through the narrow roof-slit, painting the Hollow's bunks in the colour of cold ash. Memory came back in aching fragments—Sura's scar, lantern light, the ring between them.
The opposite bunk was empty. Blanket folded, no sign of a struggle. His pulse jumped anyway. He patted the floor by his cot: boots, belt, cloak. The dragon signet still warmed his palm. Sword lay sheathed beside the stove. Everything in its place.
He rose, suppressing the groan that tried to escape cracked ribs, and made a slow circuit of the room. No Sura. Beyond the timber arch a faint clatter drifted up the tunnel, mixed with the soft pop of a kindled flame.
He found her in the kitchen alcove: cloak sleeves rolled to the elbow; copper hair braided back. A skillet of oats hissed over the small stove; dried berries bobbed in the simmer. She didn't turn when his footsteps reached the threshold.
"You snore like a dying bear," she said, tipping a pinch of salt into the pan. "Also, you stink. River mud and days of clotted blood don't age like wine, take the back cistern before breakfast."
Evan's brow tugged into something dangerously close to a smile. "Good morning to you too."
"Morning, Evan." Only then did she glance at him, eyes flicking to the half-healed gash at his ribs. "Bucket's filled. Soap's on the ledge. Don't disappear down the drain."
He left her to the oats, stepping into the wash alcove carved near the hillside's outer flank. A wooden plank covered the cistern mouth; cool mist curled from the gap. He braced both hands, lifted, and poured the stored water over his head in one shocking wave.
Cold stole his breath and, with it, the last film of sleep. Mud streaked the stone at his feet; diluted blood swirled, then vanished between flagstones. He scrubbed with hard soap until skin smarted, working grime from knuckles still raw where Godred's blade had kissed bone. Every throb reminded him he was alive, but just barely.
Alive because Maim had shoved him clear. Alive because Sura had chosen not to slit his throat while he slept.
He crouched, elbows on knees, letting a second bucket crash over his shoulders.
"If Godred spoke truth, Sura was the mole."
A single confession carved from her lips would clear his name. The Concord would welcome their prodigal back and the Drakos heirloom could return to its rightful owner. Simple math: her life for his redemption.
'Yet whether to trust Godred or not that remains a question.'
Water drummed, echoing the thought in merciless rhythm.
Yet the image of Sura at the stove intruded—quiet, steady hands measuring salt the same careful way she once packed explosives, braid tucked like on quieter bivouac nights. Her eyes dull and lifeless, yet brightness returns to them the moment he greets her. Could a traitor look like that? Could a traitor leave his signet untouched at arm's reach?
He closed his own eyes, letting the echoes in his skull settle. The Concord had called Mairn expendable once, too. Evan's loyalties had always lain with the people who bled beside him, not the nobles who gambled missions from distant halls. If he broke Sura for answers and she proved innocent, what would that make him, anything better than the butcher the Concord already believed him to be?
"There has to be a different way. A way to reap the best of both worlds."
The water fell silent. Only his breathing filled the chamber now; steady, measured. He dried with rough cloth, donned a fresh wrap around his ribs, and slung on a clean tunic that smelled faintly of cedar.
Sura was plating two bowls when he returned. She didn't comment on the bruise darkening under his eye or the new bandage. She simply slid a spoon across the table.
"Morning patrol hasn't passed the ridge," she said. "We've a few hours before anyone asks why smoke's rising from a dead hill."
Evan stirred the oats, steam fogging the signet's gem where it rested by his cup. "I slept harder than I meant to," he admitted.
"Figured you needed it." Her gaze held a moment, measuring, but not hostile. "Plans?"
"Eat. Inspect the outer wards. Make sure the pony hasn't tangled itself in a trip-line."
"After that?"
Evan didn't know how to respond. Memories flashed across his mind. Memories of his time with Sura. Some fresh imagery also popped up… of him tying her up in the basement; a knife to skin her alive, tongs to pierce her flesh, hammers to crack her bones…
"After that," he said, "No plans yet… Maybe I need a vacation."
Before Sura could answer, the kettle on the stove rattled—metal hitting boil. A puff of steam forced the lid ajar, and a single dried berry in the porridge burst with a sharp pop, splattering a bright red spot on the wall.
Sura jumped, turned down the flame, then huffed out a breath that turned into a quiet, surprised laugh. She dabbed the wall with a rag, eyes shining with a blissful smile creeping on her face.
"That noise," she said, half-smiling, "just like the night Deryn tried to thicken the stew with powder kegs. Remember? Berries exploding everywhere, Maim yelling about 'culinary artillery'. "
The flashes of scenarios running through Evan's head stopped. His gaze drawn towards her beautiful smile. His heart strings pulled. His gaze turning soft as he joined her in on her laugh.
Evan's lips tilted, memory flickering: a firelit mess-tent, Deryn's sheepish grin, the entire squad ducking as cranberries detonated in the pot.
"He claimed it would add 'texture', " Evan said. "All it added was a week of pink stains on our uniforms."
The laugh that escaped Evan was small but real, rolling the tightness from her shoulders. Sura echoed it, steady and controlled—no clumsiness in the motion, only a soldier's sure hands as she lifted the kettle, bled off the hiss, and set it back with precise care.
As Evan sat at the table, watching her laugh, he gained more clarity.
'Perhaps I don't need to be in such haste. If she is playing a game, I can play along. And if she is innocent, we can be a team again.'