The wind carried no warnings—only lullabies. In the cradle of the glade, they were not fugitives or rebels, not warriors or refugees. They were keepers. Carriers of a quiet revolution.
Cruzer did not sleep, not fully. His body rested, but his mind wandered. Each glade, each circle they shaped, felt less like a camp and more like a pulse—one beat in a rising rhythm that echoed across the land. He could almost hear it now, like a drum beneath the surface of the world. Not war drums. Heartbeats.
Elara's breathing slowed beside him, her warmth grounding him. She always stayed a little longer in these moments, awake just enough to feel what he was feeling. Not to fix it, not even to respond. Just to be there. That had always been her gift—not power, not prophecy. Presence.
He slipped out from beneath the willow's shade just before dawn. The sky was still a deep indigo, stars hanging like thoughts unspoken, but already the air was changing. A coolness that hinted at morning's promise.
