The pain was constant now. Not the sharp, stabbing kind that demanded attention, but the deep, throbbing ache that lingered in his bones like cold iron. When Caliste opened his eyes on the third morning, he didn't move right away. He just breathed. Each inhale reminded him he was still alive. Each exhale was a quiet promise to keep going.
The embers of last night's fire still glowed faintly in the pit. Beside them sat Daimon—silent, unusually so. There was no gleeful insult, no boot to the ribs, no declaration of a new training deathtrap. He just sat there, arms crossed, eyes locked on the flames like he was waiting for them to show him something.
Caliste struggled upright with a grunt, his body protesting every motion.
"You're not yelling," he said, his voice thick with sleep and soreness. "Should I be worried?"
Daimon didn't look up. "I had a dream," he said quietly. "Haven't had one in years."
Caliste blinked. That wasn't what he expected.
"What was it about?"
