By the time I left the archive, my head felt stuffed with ashes.
Voices followed me up the stairs—old ink voices, Maera’s rough confession, Bryn’s brutal questions—but the one that cut through all of them was younger. Arrogant and shaking at the same time.
I do not accept this bond.
I hadn’t walked to the old ritual clearing intending to find ghosts. They came anyway.
Moonlight silvered the snow-dusted grass. The circle—the real one, the one where Jarek had spoken those words three years ago—scarred the ground in a faint ring, stubborn even after seasons of rain and new growth. The trees leaned in, bare branches clawing at the sky.
I stopped at the edge.
You could still see it, if you knew where to look: the faint black trace of burned runes in the soil, half-hidden by moss. Here, wh
