The exhaustion was a physical thing, a shroud woven from lead and shadow. It clung to my limbs, weighted my eyelids, and turned the simple act of breathing into a laborious task. Yet, sleep would not come. Every time I drifted toward the edge of oblivion, I would see the captain's sneering face, feel the phantom crunch of the old man's wooden bird beneath my boot, and the shame would jolt me awake.
I was lying on the simple pallet in the hut, the scratchy wool blanket a rough comfort against my skin. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke from the banked fire pit outside. Through the thin walls, I could hear the faint, rhythmic sound of a blade being whetted. Yue. He was awake. Of course, he was awake. He was probably sharpening his sword while contemplating all the ways my foolishness could get us both killed.
