Later, when the others returned from their tasks, he told them everything. He didn't soften it. He told them what he saw, what he heard. The voice using Emma's body. The way the smoke looked out through her eyes.
"No more secrets," he said. "We face this together."
And so they did. That night, they lit extra torches. Wrote down every second of their evening routines. Susan took the first watch. Jude stayed with her, knife on his belt, eyes fixed on the woods.
At midnight, a scream echoed from the other treehouse. Natalie's.
They rushed there, blades drawn, adrenaline pumping.
She was alone, shaking, her hands covered in dirt. She didn't remember why.
Outside, the wind changed direction again.
By morning, three more wives had reported blackouts. Not long. Minutes. But enough.
Enough to know the smoke was no longer hiding.
It was choosing.
One by one.
And it had started with Emma.
Jude knew what he had to do.
He had to find the source.
