Morning arrived without ceremony. Dust motes caught the light bleeding through the curtain's edge. Joseph's eyes opened.
Rayah slept beside him—flat on her back, mouth closed, blanket tucked with geometric precision. Perfect posture, even unconscious. The past few nights she'd been curled tight, shivering through fever dreams. This was progress.
He spared her half a glance before sliding from the bed. The door eased shut behind him with careful pressure. No creak.
Cold tile met his bare feet in the washroom. Colder water met his face. He scrubbed methodically, then stepped under the shower's spray and let his mind work.
First: negotiate kitchen access with the inn's staff. Cooking his own meals meant control—ingredients, costs, what actually went into his body. Non-negotiable.
Second: investigate those red-marked locations on Hogar's map. The gambling den especially. If patterns existed in which rocks hit the jackpot, that advantage was exploitable.
