The morning sun didn't last. By noon, the sky over Oakhaven had bruised a deep, swollen purple, looking less like a weather system and more like a threat.
"We need to check the southern anchor," Guilermo announced, standing in the doorway of the kitchen where I was nursing a mug of tea.
I looked up. I was wearing one of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of leggings I’d salvaged from my bag. It was comfortable, which was dangerous. Comfort made you soft. Comfort made you forget you were sleeping in the den of a predator.
"I sealed it," I said, blowing on the steam. "The Truth Stone proved it."
"You did a battlefield splice," he corrected, walking over to lean against the counter. He looked rested for the first time in days, the tension around his eyes smoothed out, but his energy was st
