63: THE SILVER BREATH

AYLA'S POV 

My boots squelched in the melted frost, the last of winter weeping beneath the trees.

The valley was waking. Slowly. Painfully. Like a beast broken at the bone, unsure if it should rise or crawl. Tents flapped low against the wind. Smoke curled from half-drowned fires. Wolves moved through the trees without speaking, their eyes tracking me like I was a weapon—unsheathed, humming, dangerous.

Because I was.

The Seer emissaries had left two nights ago, heads bowed lower than when they came. They hadn't submitted. Not entirely. But they'd seen enough. Enough to send their reports back to the Ivory Council with trembling hands and salt-slicked robes. Enough to know that if they moved against me, they'd have to kill something ancient to do it.

Ancient things do not die easily.

Kael was still asleep when I left. Curled beside the hearth in the longhouse, one arm slung over where I'd been. Even in sleep, he reached for me. Even now.