Talia POV
The night after the markings, nothing settled.
The camp should have been quiet—guards rotating, fires banked low, the forest breathing its usual slow rhythm—but the world refused to rest. Wind threaded through the pines like a warning whispered too late, brushing needles together in soft, restless sighs. Even the moon seemed unsettled, its light waxing and dimming, waxing again, as if beating time with something alive beneath Talia’s skin.
She sat awake long after the others slept, her back against the narrow cot, hands resting over the curve of her stomach. Three steady pulses answered her touch—strong, insistent, unaware of the danger tightening around them. She breathed through the familiar fear, grounding herself in those rhythms. Her children were real. Present. Alive.
