Snowfall muffled the world the next morning. Thick flakes drifted down in lazy spirals, landing on rooftops, shoulders, and hair, as though Winterborn itself was relearning how to breathe. The ridge smelled clean. Not of magic. Not of fear. Simply of snow, pine, and the lingering smoke of last night’s fire.
I stood at the balcony overlooking the valley. Wolves moved below me, slower this time, their steps deliberate rather than frantic. No orders pushed them forward. No visions pulled them into chaos. They moved because the day called for it. Nothing more. Nothing less.
My breath fogged in front of me, ghosting through the air. It vanished as quickly as it formed. Like everything else, it reminded me that existence did not owe permanence.
Ronan approached silently. I had stopped questio
