Grief does not empty a world.
It rearranges it.
⸻
The morning after Korrin’s death does not arrive gently.
There is no ceremonial hush, no dramatic storm. The sun rises like it always has, spilling light across Blood Moon with the same indifferent grace it offered the day before.
That is what hurts the most.
Zane stands where the fire burned down to white ash, the heir asleep against his chest, heavier than they should be for how small they are. Grief has weight. It settles into muscle and bone, into the way the bond hums lower now, altered but alive.
Jason approaches quietly.
“It’s changing,” he says softly.
Zane doesn’t ask what.
He already knows.
⸻
The bond does not recoil from the loss.
It does not lash out.
It does something far more unsettling.
It remembers.
Jason tra
