Morning arrived without announcement.
At Silver Fang, dawn did not push its way into the day. It unfolded—light filtering gradually through the eastern trees, touching the highest branches first, then slipping downward, settling into the spaces between leaves and stone and open ground with the same quiet certainty the convergence brought to everything it sustained.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing struggled.
The world did not wake.
It continued.
Arvella was awake before the light reached her.
Not because she had slept poorly.
She had slept well—deep, steady, uninterrupted.
And yet she had surfaced early, gradually aware of being conscious before the instinct to rise had formed.
She remained still for several moments after that awareness returned.
Not thinking.
Not reaching for the day.
