The territory feels different in the morning, and the difference is not loud or dramatic but steady and rooted, like something that used to tremble has finally settled into its own bones.
I wake before the sun fully rises, and for a long moment I lie still beneath the blankets, waiting for the familiar pull beneath my ribs to tighten or spike or demand something from me.
It does not.
The tether is still there.
But it is not pulling.
It is flowing.
The land hums faintly beyond the walls of the packhouse, and the sound is no longer sharp or volatile but low and even, like breath instead of warning.
Axel’s arm is heavy across my waist, and Atticus’s hand rests warm at my hip, and both of them are sleeping deeper than they have in weeks, their faces unlined by tension and their bodies n
