The morning light is thin and gray, stretching over the fields like a veil. The air smells faintly metallic—burned ozone and earth—residue from last night’s fight. Every step I take buzzes faintly through the soles of my boots, like the ground is still trying to remember what stability feels like.
Grams is already outside, her skirt brushing the grass, chalk in one hand, salt in the other. She’s been working since dawn, re-carving runes into the perimeter like she can hold the world together with sheer stubbornness. The glow under her feet flickers pale, struggling to rise to full strength.
I wrap my coat tighter and cross the yard. William’s silhouette looms at the far end of the field, motionless except for the wind shifting his coat. He hasn’t slept—I can tell by the sharp set of his
