Two months had passed inside the veil.
Outside, perhaps only a few weeks had slipped by, but within the shimmering shield time ran faster. The witches measured it by the rhythm of the wards; the mothers measured it by the weight of their children in their arms. What should have been fragile infants now looked and moved like six-to-eight-month-olds—crawling, grasping, babbling with voices that carried sparks of something more than human.
The compound adapted, uneasily. Wolves and witches kept the wards strong; food was rationed and carefully replenished; corridors stayed dim to keep the veil’s hum from drawing attention. Every day, Ravyn woke to the same realization: her sons were growing too quickly, and every moment mattered more than the last.
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Dorian was sturdy, all will and wobble
