Isabella didn’t sleep.
Not as the fires were cleared. Not as the dead were counted and named. Not as Kael leaned against a stone wall, his tunic torn, blood drying on his temple, watching her with eyes full of questions he hadn’t yet dared ask.
The Grove whispered beneath her feet.
No—waited.
By dawn, the Hollow had changed. The trees stood taller. The roots no longer shifted in passive welcome; they bowed. A reverence born not of fear, but of recognition. Isabella Thornbound had chosen her path, and the world had begun to bend.
East.
Toward the old lands.
Toward the forgotten court.
Toward the thing that waited without a crown.
Elira moved beside her like shadow and scent, her steps silent despite the sword at her hip and the spellwoven satchel across her shoulder. She hadn’t ask
