The dust of the collapsed canyon did not settle so much as it congealed, hanging in the air like a veil of rusted lace. The silhouette of the man limping toward us was a jagged tear in that veil. Every step he took seemed to drag the weight of the mountain behind him. I stood frozen on the ridge, my heart a trapped bird hammering against my ribs, watching the impossible geometry of his movement.
Beside him, Eleanor Wolfe stood as a pillar of ancient, terrifying composure. Her silver hair was untouched by the desert grit, and the leather-bound book in her hands—the Wolfe Ledger of Intent—looked like a heavy, dark anchor. She wasn't a ghost; she was the architect who had never left the room.
"Stop, Grace," Julian whispered, his hand catching my shoulder. "Look at his shadow."
I looked. Th
