The pre-dawn darkness cloaked the camp in shades of deep indigo and black, broken only by the faint glow of dying embers from fires that had burned through the night. Most of the camp still slept, wrapped in their bedrolls and blankets against the winter chill, their breath creating small clouds of mist in the cold air.
But Lady Cerys had not slept at all during the long, cold night.
She sat on the edge of her bedroll, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she stared at the dark canvas of the tent above her. Beside her, Sir Cynwrig slept peacefully, his breathing deep and steady, blissfully unaware of the turmoil that had kept his wife awake through the long, terrible hours of the night.
