Emily Rosewood’s Point of View.
Raven Hollow and the Waking Grove, eight weeks and seven days after the gate closed
The Hollow had never been truly quiet, but now—after the earth had swallowed the First again, after the chains of starlight and moon had snapped shut around her—it lay in a stillness that felt like the world holding its breath.
No wind stirred the pines.
No ravens called from the peaks.
Even the great river that cut through the western gorge flowed without a sound, as though afraid to wake what slept beneath.
I sat alone on the blackened stone where the First had risen, knees drawn to my chest, staring at my empty palm. The triune sigil—Flame, Moon, Star—was gone. Just smooth skin now. I felt hollowed out, like something ancient and steady had been torn from my ribcage
