Chapter 8

The desert had grown colder in the weeks since Rigg’s last departure, the nights sharper, longer. The small town slumbered under a thin frost, windows dark except for the occasional flicker of lanterns. Rigg returned as the sun sank low, dust and wind clinging to his coat, and found the room quiet and still.

Ione Beaumont was was waiting, standing upright now on crutches. Her legs, though weak, bore her weight, and her spine, reinforced and healed enough, allowed her a steadier posture than before. The casts had been removed; the heels and ankles showed faint scars and stiffness, her toes wiggling slightly with newfound motion. She smiled faintly at him, green eyes bright, sharper than ever.

“You’re back,” she said, testing her balance as she leaned on the crutches. “And in one piece, I hope?”

“Mostly,” Rigg replied, his voice low, carrying the weight of months away. “And you ... look stronger than when I left.”

“I can walk,” she said, flexing slightly to prove it. “Barely, but enough.”

He stepped closer, heart pounding as he took in the sight of her small, determined movements—the slim curves of her body now supported on crutches, the controlled strength of her arms, the delicate, still slightly tender angles of her heels and ankles. She was fragile and formidable all at once, the contrast striking and impossible to ignore.