The storm did not roar. It did not howl.
It breathed.
Wind swept through the Hollow Lands like an exhale from the oldest lungs in the world, bending trees that had stood for centuries. The red light of the Blood Grove pulsed once more, then went dark, as if it, too, was holding its breath.
Astren did not run.
He stood where she had told him not to, his feet planted in mud and memory, eyes locked on the place where Aelira had vanished. Not gone—taken.
Cain and Raze shouted his name, but he didn’t hear them. Not really. All he heard was her voice, echoing through the smoke.
Run.
He took a step forward. Just one. And the forest pushed him back.
It wasn’t physical. It was older than that. A force that made his chest tighten and his skin crawl. Like trying to step into a dream you weren
