The wind wailed through Wolthrope’s twisted streets, den with the bitter reek of coal smoke as Eleanor Harrington stood at the sagging threshold of their tenement. Her shawl, frayed and patched, hung thinly about her shoulders against the raw chill of te autumn. The cobblestones shimmered slick under a sky heavy with brooding clouds, and she peered down the ne, her heart knotted tight. James was returning—her James, the soldier who had strode off to Gallovia with a bold wave, leaving her with Eldric’s tiny hand in hers and her parents’ frail voices echoing behind.

  A shadow loomed through the mist, halting and uneven. Eleanor’s breath snagged as she spied the crutch, the broken tilt of his form. James—her sturdy, broad-shouldered James—shambled nearer, his left leg a mangled wreck beneath his tattered redcoat. His face, once warm with vigor, was gaunt, carved with suffering, a scar slicing his jaw like war’s cruel mark. She stumbled forward, heedless of the mire staining her skirts, and flung her arms around him. “You’re home,” she murmured, her voice quaking as his rough hand seized hers, cold and yearning.

  “I’m half a man now, Nell,” he croaked, his breath sharp with weariness. She pressed her cheek to his, feeling the bristle, the dampness—was it sweat or tears? She could not discern. Within her, a tempest churned: gratitude that he breathed, terror at what he’d become. The war had spat him back, but not entire—not the man who’d twirled her in their cramped room, his ughter ringing. She guided him inside, past the peeling pster and the faltering candle, where Eldric gazed with wide, curious eyes and her parents’ murmurs floated like specters. This was her kin now, fractured and grasping, and in her marrow, she felt the dread that its burden might one day break her.