The sky over Corban belonged to Harold again.
At 3:17 a.m., three hours after the warehouse became a memory, Harold Draven stood on the cottage roof in nothing but borrowed sweatpants and sixty-three years of borrowed time. The night smelled of pine and distant snow (clean, sharp, alive). He spread his arms.
Reed watched from the garden, breath fogging in the cold. Laken leaned against him, her frost no longer defensive but playful, curling around his ankles like a cat. Luca and Wade sat on the porch steps, shoulders touching, phoenix-gold scars glowing softly in the dark. Eliza stood at the kitchen window, coffee mug raised in silent salute.
Harold closed his eyes. The change was gentle this time.
No screaming scales. No cursed fire. Just human bones remembering what wings felt like.
