The days that followed the kidnapping blurred into a strange quiet. The Blackthorn mansion, usually heavy with shadows and silence, seemed even more withdrawn—as if the stone walls themselves carried the echo of what had happened.
Nerine moved slowly through her hours, her body healing but her spirit carrying the weight of the ambush. Her wrists still bore faint traces of bruises where the ropes had cut into her skin, and though Clara brought her warm compresses and soothing balms, the ache lingered deeper than flesh.
Kael checked on her, but never lingered. His tall frame would appear in the doorway, his voice low and unreadable.
"Are you healing?" he would ask.
"Yes," she would answer, hoping he would stay—hoping he would give her some fragment of the warmth she had felt in those rare moments.
