They walked the last mile barefoot. Dawn cracked the cypress canopy in thin gold slices that glowed on Lucien’s shoulders like frost kissed by a reluctant sun. His coat was torn at the seams, claws tucked under so he wouldn’t tear the hush that pressed against Rowan’s spine as they moved through the old parish road. No words. Just her breath, his cold, and the swamp’s hush riding her ribs like a new crown.
The Council’s hall lay dead behind them — runes bleeding rust back into the moss they’d once stolen from the swamp’s edges. Rowan didn’t look back. Her feet bled slow into the wet earth, salt dust falling from her heels where old bindings had once cut neat lines that told her when to bow. She didn’t bow now. She didn’t break now.
Lucien’s monster pressed under his throat — not snarling
