The tower had become a black tooth on the horizon by the time the ridge path narrowed to a hunter’s track. Frost clung to the pines. Their breath hung pale and quick. No one spoke unless they had to. Grief made good silencers.
Lena walked at the front, the crowns dim and steady, her mark keeping time against her breastbone. Dominic matched her stride on the left with that wolf-quiet that always made the world feel smaller around him. Kael took her right, shadows flicking at his heels like impatient dogs, pretending not to watch her and failing.
By midday they reached a draw where a thin stream picked its way through mossed stones. It should have been a place to drink and breathe. The air was wrong—too still, thick as wool pulled over a cage.
Dominic raised a hand; they halted without a
