The territory does not tremble when I wake, and the absence of strain feels stranger than the chaos ever did, because for so long I measured every morning by whether the land was pulling at me or flaring in response to something I had not yet learned to name.
Now it simply exists.
Axel is awake before I open my eyes fully, and I can feel his steady awareness through the bond, not sharp and vigilant but calm and grounded, and Atticus shifts on my other side with slow controlled heat that no longer flickers unpredictably under his skin.
No one says anything at first.
We lie there in quiet, and the hum beneath the packhouse is low and even, not rising to test us and not demanding attention.
It is not waiting.
It is living.
Axel brushes his thumb lightly across my hip, and the touch is
