Draven.
I had barely slept.
Two hours, at most, and most of them were haunted by flashes of the dead bodies of our people. And that dance.
For the past seven minutes, I had sat at the head of the breakfast table, silent, barely touching my plate but watching Meredith.
She was eating. Not cautiously. Just… normally. Quietly. A slice of buttered toast. A cup of warm broth. Some grilled mushroom cuts.
She looked like a woman who had slept well, like someone who hadn't stood barefoot in the garden, and that too in the middle of the night, dancing in the moonlight like she was being manipulated.
Meredith hadn't noticed me staring. Or maybe she had and didn't care.
Her fingers moved with idle grace. Her hair was pinned loosely today, leaving soft strands curling around her neck. Not a flicker of guilt on her face.
"She truly wasn't conscious last night," I confirmed inwardly.
'I told you she wasn't herself,' Rhovan added darkly.
