That, more than anything, told me how far we had come. In the siege months, every change in weather had felt like a potential complication supply lines, patrol conditions, the way cold could make a body slower to heal. This winter simply settled over Blackridge in clean, ordinary layers: frost on the inner gardens at dawn, the deeper quiet of a territory turning its attention toward stores and indoor work, the pale light that made the claim marks on our throats look like pale ink against skin.
I stood at the upper window on the first true morning of it and watched the grounds take the cold. Behind me, Tristan moved through the quiet routine of dressing for a day of border administration meetings, the bond between us carrying the low, settled awareness of shared space. No gate checks. No r
