Emily Rosewood’s Point of View.
Raven Hollow, three weeks after the gate closed.
A full moon hung over the Hollow like a guardian, round and bright and impossibly gentle after everything it had witnessed. Instead of howls of warning or war, the forest sang with celebration.
I stood at the edge of the sacred glade, arms folded loosely across my chest, letting the warmth of bonfires and laughter wash over me. Children darted between the trees like silver fish, their giggles bright as bells. Warriors passed flasks of honey-mead and retold the battle with ever-wilder gestures. Someone had started a drum circle; the rhythm thumped in my bones like a second heartbeat.
I should have felt triumphant.
I should have been dancing.
Instead there was a strange, hollow stillness in my chest—like t
