Celeste
"Again," Lowen said. "But this time, don't reach for it. Let it come to you."
I stood barefoot in the dew-soaked grass at the edge of the back field, the sun barely above the tree line, mist curling around my ankles in slow white ribbons. The cold bit through my skin and woke every nerve in my feet. A thin gold light slid through the pines and laid long, soft shadows across the grass, and the whole world smelled of wet earth and woodsmoke and the green, sharp scent of crushed clover. Somewhere far across the field a rooster from the pack's hobby flock sounded off, hoarse and entirely unconvinced of the hour.
Lowen faced me three paces away, steady as an oak, his arms loose at his sides and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Axel lounged against the fence beside him, arms folded,
