Morning arrives without warning.
Not softly. Not gently.
It just arrives—like the mountain has decided there is no more time left to prepare.
The Silver Fang envoys are already awake when I reach the courtyard.
They don’t look tired.
They look ready.
That’s different.
Rylan is speaking with them near the southern steps, his voice low, controlled, precise. Not welcoming them again—they’ve already been welcomed—but aligning understanding without saying the word war.
Because everyone here knows that word is now sitting very close to the surface.
Mara stands beside me, arms folded, watching the gates.
“You feel that?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
It isn’t fear.
It’s anticipation stretched too tight.
The kind that hurts if nothing happens.
Behind us, Dag is sitting on the stone bench
