Morning came soft and honest. The ridge wore a shawl of mist, the kind that collects on pines and drips as if the trees have learned to breathe. They ate what could be eaten cold, and for once no one argued with the wind. Lena’s crowns hovered low—warm, obedient. The mark beneath her collarbone beat even, the half-ring cool and quiet as a healed burn.
They moved north-east, away from the dead geometry of the Lattice and into uplands stitched with birch and red pine. Lark walked light beside Edda’s litter, practicing a silent draw of Bran’s knife until Edda swatted his wrist for showing off. Dominic took point in the wolf way that neither announces itself nor apologizes for leading. Kael slid along the flanks, shadow prying under roots, turning over stones, bringing back nothing but suspic
