Reza
The road out of territory is still damp with morning.
Dew clings to the grass along the fence line, and the sky is that pale, washed color it gets right before the sun decides whether it wants to show up fully or not. The packhouse behind me is waking in layers. Quiet doors, soft footsteps, the faint murmur of voices starting their day, but out here, everything feels sharper. Exposed.
The guard waits by the gate exactly as promised.
He’s older than I expected, broad-shouldered, calm in the way wolves get when they’ve survived enough to stop proving anything. He doesn’t introduce himself. He doesn’t need to. The posture says enough: assigned, trusted, not here to be swayed.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
Starla is awake but controlled, eyes bright with intent.
- This is
