The border does not flare this time.
It does not erupt into noise or chaos or even visible tension.
It shifts.
Subtle.
Intentional.
I feel it before anyone reports it, a tightening along the western edge of territory that brushes the bond like a fingertip along a wire. Layla lifts her head beneath my ribs, not alarmed, but alert in a way that signals familiarity.
Something deliberate, she says.
“Yes.”
The patrol report arrives thirty minutes later, phrased carefully as always.
Unusual marking near the creek.
No breach.
No trespass.
Just a symbol carved into bark.
I volunteer to inspect it myself.
Not dramatically. Not urgently. Calmly, as if it is procedural.
Predictable.
Manageable.
The escort assigned to me falls into step without question.
The air near the border smell
