Chapter 32 · Chapter 32

The chill did not take him while the sun ruled the valley, but when the dusk shadows lengthened against the red hills of the valley, Shimon’s step slowed upon the beaten path toward our dwelling. By the time he reached the woven threshold, the heat radiating from his skin was not the warmth of the sun, but the bitter fire that the wilderness breathes into the blood of those who wander too long beneath its barren sky.

He did not speak of the ache. He merely set his leather satchel upon the low chest, washed his hands at the earthenware basin, and sank onto the wool pallet where our blankets were spread. When I brought him the bowl of cool goat’s milk seasoned with crushed herbs, his fingers trembled against the clay, though his grip upon my wrist remained steady, anchoring him against the tremor in his chest.

"The valley wind carried dust from the southern crags," he whispered, his voice dry as parched reed, though his gaze held mine with the quiet gravity that had never wavered since the day he took my name before the elders. "Do not trouble yourself, Arwa. It will break before morning.