Asher paced back and forth in the dimly lit guest room, his brow furrowed, teeth worrying at his thumbnail as his mind whirled. The boy lay quietly on the bed, freshly clothed in a simple tunic, his face softened in sleep but still pale. His arms rested at his sides, thin and frail, wrists like delicate sticks that looked as if a strong breeze might snap them. Asher hadn't been able to ignore how disturbingly light the boy had felt when he caught him—like someone who hadn't had a decent meal in far too long. It reminded him of his own past, of days spent scraping by, his family clinging to survival by the thinnest thread.