The world smells of wet grass and thunder.
Morning has only half arrived; mist still drifts over the fields behind the farmhouse, and the sun cuts through it in thin, uneven shafts. I can taste metal in the air, leftover energy from yesterday’s training, the one that left my bones shaking and the wards singing for hours afterward.
William waits in the meadow.
He stands barefoot in the mud, sleeves rolled, shirt clinging damply to his shoulders. The sight shouldn’t make my pulse trip, but it does. The shadows around him seem to lean closer, obedient. He doesn’t look up when I approach, though I know he felt me long before I stepped outside.
“Morning,” I say, voice rough.
“You slept,” he answers without turning. “Good. You’ll need it.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
“An observation.
