DANTE
Dawn fractures across Portland like a fever breaking, and I taste copper in the air—not blood, but something older. Fear. The kind that makes humans do stupid, desperate things. Through the bond, Sadie's exhaustion pulses against my consciousness, a bruise-deep ache from watching her adoptive father's continued crucifixion on C-SPAN until her eyes bled tears of vindication.
The fae arrive as morning mist, slipping between shadows with the kind of grace that makes reality negotiate its terms. Their healing doesn't announce itself like white wolf power—no golden light, no dramatic displays. They simply touch the dying children in our medical tents, and fever breaks like spelling errors being gently corrected.
"The disease resists at first." The fae woman who leads them—she never gav
