The needle

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The dead sing louder here.

Their voices are woven into the auroras, a chorus of growls and whispers that vibrate in my teeth. The needle thrums against my ribs, its presence a cold, insistent *thing*—a compass, a curse. Kael pads beside me, his breath frosting the air in ragged bursts, while Eden trails behind, his hands buried in the pockets of a coat lined with crow feathers. The northern lights twist above us like a living tapestry, their colors bleeding into shapes I don’t dare name.

The graves of the First Wolves aren’t marked by stones. They’re marked by absence—patches of earth where the snow refuses to settle, where the wind dies mid-scream. The ancient ones warned us not to tread here, but warnings are currency I’ve spent too freely.

Eden stops, his boot sinking into a drift. “They’re watching.”