The fog had lifted by morning, but a hush still clung to the trees, thick and listening.
Nova stood on the edge of the clearing, River pressed close to her chest in his wrap. His heartbeat was steady against hers, soft as a drumbeat. She hadn’t spoken much since Thorn returned from the forest—marked, weakened, but alive. He’d asked her to walk with him again, back to the old willow. Not alone this time. This time, with River.
“This is not a ritual of power,” Thorn had said. “This is a ritual of trust.”
Now, she stood among the elders, the witches, and a small circle of Crescent Moon wolves who had come not as guards, but as quiet witnesses. Even Adelia looked subdued, her silver hair braided down her back, her staff clutched tight as if it, too, were listening to something beneath the e
