Valerius stepped over the rotten fence post and into the shallow dip of ground as if he were crossing a threshold he owned. The children didn’t move. Six small bodies held their shape in the open field—two tight triangles locked at the points, hands woven, knees soft, feet set just so. The dew-dark grass made a dull ring around them that where it had already been pressed by small heels and toes. Hope stood forward-left, chin up. Dorian squared his shoulders at the outer point as if a parade inspector might be watching. Alaric stood at the seam where the two triangles met, eyes the exact green of Ravyn’s, face steady in a way a face that young shouldn’t be.
The ground here had a hum to it; even Ravyn could feel it from the tree line, a faint pull that made her molars ache. It was the sort
