By the time the next full moon rose, the relics no longer felt like objects.
They breathed. Each night I could feel them humming through the walls, the rhythm matching ours-the triplet’s pulse shared and unbroken. Even the forest seemed to listen now; branches tilted toward the packhouse when the relics stirred, as if the old trees remembered their names.
Training began at dusk. The clearing behind the house had been widened, the old circle of stones glowing faintly from our last ritual. Father stood with the elders at the edge, silent. Dominic lingered behind them, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
Lilly laid the silver crown on the ground. “It feels heavier every time,” she said.
James set the journal beside it, the pages fluttering even without wind. I drew the dagger last, pr
