Chapter 20 · Chapter 20

Dawn came gray over the heavy hair of the tent, cold and smelling of wet dust.

The camp outside had not slept; I could hear the muted scraping of sandals on flint and the restless shifting of camels by the pickets, but no one dared call out. Behind the sealed curtain, the center pole stood black and unyielding. The scent of bruised wool and crushed bark still hung thick around the bolster where my head rested.

Beside me, Shimon stirred. There was no hesitation in his movement, none of the sluggishness of a man who weighed regret against an oath already taken. He sat up, his silhouette broad and still against the faint wash of morning filtering through the seams.

Without a word, he reached for his tunic, drawing the coarse weave over his chest with steady hands. He did not ask if I was afraid, nor did he offer hollow comfort; his protection lay in the deliberate, calm slowness of every fasten he secured.

He retrieved the small bronze token—the severed seal of the old betrothal pledge that had hung over my neck since my youth—from the pouch at his belt.