Netser waited until the last of the patients were settled and the women began leaving the infirmary one by one. Their baskets were lighter now, their footsteps weary from the day's work.
She came last.
Her hair was freed from its knot, cascading gently down her shoulders. Her gait was measured and cautious. To anyone else, she was another helper tending the wounded. But to Netser, every movement sang with familiarity—the proud set of her shoulders, the defiance hidden even in her silence.
He pressed himself deeper into the shadow of the archway, every muscle taut. His heart hammered with a rhythm he had not felt in years. When she passed beneath the spill of moonlight, he stepped out.
"Shaya."
The name slipped from him like a prayer.
She froze. For a heartbeat, she did not turn, only tightened her grip on the empty basket in her hands. Then, slowly, she lifted her head. Her eyes—those same unyielding eyes he remembered from the balcony—met his.
