The fire burned at the center of the compound.
Adrian saw it from above—not flying, not hovering, just seeing, the way dreams let you see things you shouldn't. The flames were orange against the dark. Figures moved around the fire, their hands raised.
He had never been here before. This wasn't the grey city.
This was her village.
He could feel it—the heat of the fire, the weight of the smoke, the murmur of voices chanting in a language he didn't understand.
He was seeing through her eyes.
She was there, standing at the edge of the circle, half-hidden by the shadows of a building. He could feel her heart beating—fast, steady, afraid.
The figures around the fire swayed. Their voices rose. The smoke thickened.
In the center of the fire, suspended above the flames, was a pot. Black iro
