Chapter 2 – Through the Fog, Toward the Ridge | The Celestial Thread

The hum didn’t stop when Elira stepped back from the tree. It stayed in her bones, low and heavy, as if the sap were still moving under her skin. The vial shook in her hand. Far off in the fog, something massive shifted—branches? Footsteps? The sound was too thick to name. Kieran’s head snapped toward the noise. “We shouldn’t stay here.” He didn’t wait for her to agree. He slid his arms under Myla and lifted her, jaw clenched against the weight. The wound was gone, but her shirt was still stiff with blood. Steam curled from the fabric into the cold air.

Elira shoved the vial into her belt and followed as Kieran carried Myla toward the tree line. The clearing fell behind them in pieces—the molten veins in the bark, the torn earth where the Veyr had knelt, the place where the mist had sealed around it like a closing throat. They didn’t stop until a fallen fir lay ahead of them, its trunk propped at an angle against another tree. Kieran eased Myla down in the hollow behind it, out of the open sight of the clearing. Only then did Elira realize she was shaking. “What if it comes back?” she whispered.

Kieran’s eyes flicked to the fog behind them, then to the faint gold still threading under Elira’s skin where the sap had touched her. “Then we make sure she’s not in the middle of it this time.” He peeled Myla’s shirt back just enough to see the place where the blade had been. The skin there was smooth, pale, as if nothing had ever broken it. No scar. No stitch. Just a faint glow, already fading. Kieran swore under his breath. “Elira... what did you take from that tree?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. The pulse in her veins answered instead, a slow, watchful thrum. “I don’t know,” she said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. “I just... knew it would help.” Kieran sat back on his heels, staring at Myla’s steady breathing. “That creature looked at you like it recognized you. And now this.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Stone skin, breathing fog, and some kind of... golden tree blood that heals knife wounds.” When he said it out loud, it sounded impossible.

Elira pulled her knees to her chest. “What was it?” Neither of them had an answer. Myla shifted then, a tiny sound slipping from her throat. Her lips moved around a broken breath—too soft, too torn to make out. Elira leaned closer. “Myla? Can you hear me?” There was no answer. Just that faint, trembling exhale... and then stillness. The hum beneath Elira’s skin tightened, as if something unseen had noticed her noticing.

The forest didn’t quiet after Myla fell still. If anything, the silence grew heavier—shaped, somehow, like something listening just beyond the fog. Elira hugged her arms around herself, trying to stop a trembling she couldn’t control. The hum beneath her skin pulsed faintly, a reminder of the sap threaded through her veins. She didn’t like how it felt—alive, almost aware.

Kieran checked Myla again, leaning close enough for Elira to hear the hitch in his breathing. “Her pulse is steady,” he murmured. “But she’s burning up.” Elira swallowed. “Is that... normal?” Kieran shot her a look. “Nothing about tonight is normal.” He sat back, wiping his hands on his trousers, though no blood remained. The glow in Myla’s healed skin had faded completely now. If Elira hadn’t seen the wound herself, she would’ve believed it never happened.

“She tried to say something,” Elira whispered. “I couldn’t understand it.”

“Fever,” Kieran muttered. “She’s dreaming. Or trapped in whatever the sap is doing to her.” Elira didn’t argue. She pulled her knees up tightly. “When that creature looked at me... it felt like it knew me.” Kieran didn’t answer. His eyes moved back toward the trees where the clearing had vanished into fog. “It shouldn’t have recognized anything,” he said quietly. “Things like that aren’t supposed to... see.”

A cold ripple shuddered up Elira’s spine. “But it did.” Kieran shifted closer. “Elira... what did you feel when you touched the sap?” She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she whispered. Before Kieran could respond, Myla twitched violently—a sudden, full-body jolt. A soft, broken sound tore from her throat. Kieran reached for his knife. Elira grabbed Myla’s hand. The forest leaned in.

Dark. Cold stone. A breath she can’t hold. The memory doesn’t come in order. It comes like shards.

A newborn cry, thin and startled. Her daughter’s cry. Hours old. Still covered in warmth and the faint scent of earth. Her skin soft—too soft—and red from the cold. Then hands—hands not hers—lifting the child away. “Just for a moment, Myla. We have to keep you alive.”

The king’s voice. Warm. Breaking. Begging. Drink. A chalice pressed to her lips. Dark. Thick. Bitter. Tasting like soil and blood and metal. She coughs—chokes—feels heat crawl up her throat and down her arms. The world blurs. Sounds warp. Shadows move where they shouldn’t. They carry the baby out. Her arms reach after empty air.

Then—stone. The echo of a heavy iron door slamming shut. The world becomes a cell of darkness and damp breath. The first scream comes hours later. Not hers. Someone above. A door slamming. Guards running. A woman shouting a prayer—cut off mid-word. The torchlight flickers. Just once.

Then the Vantis appear. Not fully. Only as distortions in the corners—where the moonlight leaking through the high window doesn’t reach. Thin figures. Too long. Too close. Whispering without sound. Her breath fogs. Their fog answers. Elira. Her name slips from Myla’s lips in the memory, soundless.

A guard arrives the next day. The kind one. Young. Afraid. Trying not to show it. He calls her Myla. Not queen. He listens when she tells him about the shadows. He brings water first, then food. Keeps his voice low so others won’t hear.

Days blur. Weeks. Maybe more. The vine burns. Fades. Burns again. Time becomes circles of light from the small window and his voice through the door. Then—that night. Alarms. Screams. Fog thickening until the window becomes a single pale smear. He runs back—off duty—breathing hard. Key in hand. Eyes wide with terror.

“Myla—please—go. Run. NOW.” A swell of fog—four eyes opening behind him—a gasp—his breath ripped from him—his body collapsing—Her scream trapped in her throat as the Veilrender turns—And then—light. Cold air. Her feet striking mud as she runs—the fog reaching for her—her daughter’s cry echoing far away—Then nothing. Dark.

Myla’s breath hitched. Not a scream, not speech—just a sharp, startled inhale that cut through the quiet like snapped thread. Elira jerked upright, heart hammering, while Kieran shifted to brace Myla’s shoulders should she thrash again. But she didn’t move. The breath faded. Her face slackened. She slipped back into stillness, trembling only once at the jaw. Kieran let out a slow exhale. “She’s getting worse.”

Elira brushed damp hair from Myla’s forehead. Heat rolled off her skin in waves—far hotter than before. “We can’t stay here,” she whispered. “Not out in the open.”

“We’re not moving far,” Kieran said. “Just enough to get off this path. I don’t want to lose sight of the clearing. If that creature comes back—”

“It won’t,” Elira said, but even she didn’t believe her voice. Kieran glanced at her—really looked at her—and something in his expression shifted. Worry. For Myla, yes. But also for Elira. “You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“It’s just the cold.”

“It’s not.” Elira didn’t answer. The hum in her veins had faded to a faint warmth, but it still felt like a thread wrapped around her ribs, being pulled from somewhere deep beneath the earth. Kieran moved to lift Myla again, but the moment his hands slipped beneath her shoulders, she tensed—every muscle tightening at once. A thin sound escaped her lips, almost like a word, but too faint to catch.

He froze. “She’s conscious enough to feel pain.”

“No,” Elira said quietly. “She’s afraid.” The forest seemed to hear her. A breath of wind stirred the fog. Branches shifted overhead. Something—distant, heavy, dragging—moved somewhere deeper in the woods.

Kieran’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We go now.” Elira nodded, pushing herself up, her legs unsteady. She gathered the vial of sap at her belt, making sure it was secure, then moved beside Kieran as he reached for Myla. Together, they lifted her carefully, Myla limp between them. Her head fell against Elira’s shoulder, fever-warm and trembling.

“Where?” Elira asked. Kieran scanned the dark, searching the fog for any hint of safety. “Away from the clearing. Toward higher ground if we can find it.” Elira swallowed. “Do you think it’s still out there?” Kieran didn’t answer right away. Finally, he whispered: “...I think everything is.” And the three of them stepped deeper into the forest.

The forest didn’t feel alive. It felt aware. Every shift of fog, every whisper of branches overhead, carried a weight they couldn’t name. Elira tried not to think about the shape she’d seen—half silhouette, half movement—lurking behind the wall of mist as they fled the clearing. Whatever it was, it hadn’t stepped fully into view. Maybe that was worse.

Myla hung limply between them now, her legs dragging as Kieran and Elira carried her through the tightening fog. Heat radiated from her skin, a fever that didn’t make sense. No wound should burn from the inside out. Not unless something deeper was wrong.

“Hold her higher,” Kieran murmured, shifting his grip. Elira matched his movement without thinking. They had done this kind of thing before—helping the injured flee danger—but never like this. Never with Myla. Never with a creature like the one they’d just escaped.

A low groan echoed behind them. Wood bending. Bark cracking. Elira’s breath hitched. “It’s still coming.” Kieran didn’t deny it. “Don’t look back.” Elira didn’t. She couldn’t. They pressed forward, deeper into the forest, the fog coiling around their ankles like something alive. Every footstep sounded too loud. Too sharp. Like the forest might remember the sound of them.

They moved uphill in a staggered rhythm, breaths uneven, the cold air scraping at their lungs. The fog thinned by inches, but the weight of it didn’t lift; it just changed shape, gathering between the trees like it was choosing where to wait. The only constant was Myla’s heat.

Elira kept her arm around her waist, feeling the fever burn through her like a furnace. Each time Myla’s foot dragged or her breath hitched, Elira’s stomach clenched. “We need a ridge,” Kieran murmured. “Somewhere higher. Somewhere quiet.”

Elira glanced around at the forest swallowing their path. “How can you tell which way is up in all this?”

“Feel for the wind,” he said. “Fog settles in pockets. Air clears where the land rises.”

“There is no wind.”

Kieran didn’t argue. He adjusted Myla’s weight on his shoulder and kept moving. The forest offered nothing—no birds, no insects, not even the creak of branches. Elira hadn’t realized how much she relied on noise to feel alive until it was gone.

Behind them, somewhere deep in the fog, wood groaned. A slow, heavy shift. Kieran didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. Whatever was following them hadn’t climbed after them. Still searching. Still somewhere behind them.

Elira’s legs trembled. “What if it’s coming this way?”

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But something big is close.” They climbed higher. The fog thinned enough that Elira could see the trunks of the pines more clearly—tall, ancient things with bark blackened by years of damp. But the higher they went, the more the forest seemed to listen.

Myla stirred again, her fingers twitching. She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips trembled with something like fear. “It’s okay,” Elira whispered, not knowing if it was true.

Another distant groan of wood. Farther this time. But not gone. Kieran nodded toward a break between the trees. “There. The ground levels.” Elira tightened her grip on Myla. “And after that?”

“Then we keep going.”

They stepped onto the small rise—a patch of ground slightly clearer, the fog lower, the air a fraction easier to breathe. For a moment, it felt like safety. Then the forest shifted again, the silence folding around them, thicker, closer. Myla’s head lifted weakly. Her voice was barely a breath: “…higher…”

Kieran swallowed. “She’s right.” They pressed forward, leaving the ridge behind. And somewhere below—far below now—the forest answered with a deep, distant crack.

The slope grew steeper the higher they climbed. Not dramatically—just enough that every step felt like dragging their bodies out of something thick and clinging. The fog thinned in strips around them, but it never left; it hung low over the ground like it was waiting for them to slip back into it.

Myla’s weight grew heavier between them. Elira felt the small spasms that rippled through Myla’s muscles. Each one made her grip tighter, her heart beat faster. “There will be a break somewhere,” Kieran murmured. “There always is near the base of the mountain.” Elira nodded, though everything looked the same—fog, trees, silence.

A sound rose behind them. A dull crack, sharp and sudden. Elira froze. Kieran didn’t look back. His entire body went rigid, listening. The fog below shifted, as if something enormous had disturbed the trees at the bottom of the slope.

“Was that—”

“Yes,” Kieran said. “Something stepped on something it shouldn’t have.” It sounds like… whatever that is… it’s getting closer. Elira forced herself to breathe and keep moving.

Kieran adjusted their direction slightly. “We’re getting closer.”

“Myla’s burning up,” Elira whispered.

“I know.” A cold ribbon of air slipped down from somewhere above. Clean. Sharp. Metallic. Mountain air. “Do you feel that?” Elira asked. Kieran nodded. “Yes. That’s good.” The fog below shifted again—another faint crack through the trunks. Not closer. Not farther. Just… following.

Myla stirred. Her voice was thin, strained. “…higher…”

Kieran tightened his grip. “We’re going as fast as we can.” They climbed in silence, each footfall deliberate. Behind them, the fog rose and fell like a slow, measured breath. And somewhere deep inside it… something moved again.

## Where the Fog Begins to Thin

The ground shifted again—less of a slope now, more of a long, uneven rise that forced them to plant their feet carefully with each step. Roots jutted out of the soil like ribs, slick with moisture, ready to trip anyone not watching. Kieran slowed just enough to let the terrain guide him. “This is good,” he murmured. “When the roots start showing like this, we’re leaving the lowwood.”

Elira wasn’t sure she believed him—not because he was wrong, but because her lungs were burning too much to think past the next few steps. Myla’s heat against her side made sweat collect at her temples, despite the cold air.

The fog shifted again, but differently this time. Not the rolling, heavy movement from below. Not the strange listening silence from earlier. This was... thinning. Pulling upward. Letting little pockets of clearer air appear between the trunks.

Elira caught the first glimpse of something she hadn’t seen in hours—the faint outline of the sky. Just a smear of pale gray through the canopy, but it was enough to loosen something tight in her chest. “We’re getting above it,” she breathed.

Kieran nodded, though he didn’t smile. Not yet. Behind them, so deep in the fog it sounded muffled, another groan echoed. Wood bending. Weight shifting. Steady. Relentless. Elira didn’t turn. She didn’t dare.

“Do you think it can climb?” she whispered.

Kieran thought for a moment. “Slowly,” he answered. “But it doesn’t need to rush.” The meaning settled between them like another layer of cold. The Rotlord wasn’t chasing them. It was following. Tracking. Waiting for one mistake.

Myla stirred again, but this time her fingers curled weakly into the fabric of Elira’s sleeve—as if reaching for something, or bracing against something she felt before they did.

Elira tightened her grip. “We’re almost there,” she whispered to her. “I promise.” She didn’t know if that was true. But it felt necessary to say.

The trees ahead opened just slightly, revealing a narrow stretch of flattened earth where rock began to jut through the soil. The fog clung low to the ground there but didn’t rise above their knees. Kieran exhaled. “This is the start of the foothill path.”

Elira blinked hard, trying to clear the burning in her eyes. “How far to the shelters?”

“If we keep this pace... an hour. Maybe a little more.” It sounded both too short and too long. The fog behind them shifted again—not louder, not closer—but with a rhythm that suggested something enormous adjusting its stance.

Elira swallowed thickly. “It’s still there.”

Kieran didn’t look back. “It will be until we reach stone.” They moved forward together, Myla’s weight between them, the fog thinning step by step until the trunks around them stretched taller and the air grew cleaner. They were climbing out of the dying wood.

But the dying wood, it seemed, was not done with them yet.

The rise steepened again, but this time the earth beneath their boots felt firmer—packed soil threaded with stone rather than the spongey ground of the lowwood. The trees spaced out just slightly, each trunk taller, straighter, reaching toward a sky still stubbornly hidden behind unmoving clouds.

Elira’s legs burned. Not the shaking exhaustion from before—this was deeper, threaded into muscle and bone. Every step with Myla’s weight made her shoulder throb. Still, she refused to loosen her grip. Myla had stopped stirring. Stopped muttering. Stopped twitching. Her stillness was somehow worse.

Kieran glanced sideways at her, worry tightening the corners of his mouth. “Her fever’s climbing,” he murmured. Elira nodded, breath thick in her throat. “How much farther until we reach stone?”

“A little more,” he said. “The foothill shelters are carved into the face of the ridge. Once we see rock, we’re close.”

Elira searched the trees ahead—roots, moss, earth, fog—but no stone yet. Behind them, the forest shifted again. A long, slow creak rolled up the slope. Wood bending. Weight shifting. Steady. Relentless. Elira didn’t turn. She didn’t dare.

“Don’t look back,” Kieran murmured. “It will hear that more than footsteps.” She faced forward, even as her spine prickled. They climbed. The fog was thinner here—still clinging low to the ground, but no longer thick enough to swallow sound.

Their breaths felt louder. Footfalls sharper. Myla’s faint, uneven breathing sounded fragile between them. A cold breeze drifted down from above, brushing their faces. Different than before. Colder. Steadier. Carrying the faint scent of stone dust.

“We’re close,” Kieran said, more certain now. Elira felt something unclench inside her—hope, or something shaped like it. Then Myla exhaled sharply, her head tilting back just enough for Elira to see her eyes flicker beneath the lids. Not waking. Fighting.

“Myla?” Elira whispered. A strained sound escaped her. Not a word. Not even half of one. Just pressure. Fear. Weight.

Kieran adjusted his hold. “She’s reacting to something.” Elira swallowed. “Something ahead... or something behind?” Kieran didn’t answer. Because he couldn’t. A gust pressed against them from the ridge. The fog below shifted again.

But Myla’s fingers curled—suddenly, sharply—into the fabric of Elira’s sleeve. Not reaching. Not grasping. Bracing. As if something in this forest wasn’t following them... but closing in.

The ground changed again—this time more sharply. The soil thinned until stone pushed through it in long, jagged veins, forcing Elira and Kieran to adjust their footing with every step. Myla’s weight shifted between them, making each uneven patch feel treacherous. The trees grew thicker here, but differently—no longer lowwood trees twisted by fog, but tall, straight pines that stood like sentries along the ridge.

Elira felt the difference immediately. The air tasted cleaner. Bitter with pine sap. Cold from the mountain wind. Alive in a way the lowwood never was. A good sign. But not fast enough.

Behind them, the forest groaned again—a long, dragging shift, followed by a faint crack of splintering wood. Kieran didn’t react except to tighten his hold on Myla.

Elira forced herself not to turn. Every instinct screamed at her to check the slope below, to see how close the Rotlord was, to measure how long they had—But she remembered Kieran’s warning. “Don’t look back.” She kept climbing. Her legs trembled with each step, but the stone beneath her boots made the world feel more solid, more real. Less like the nightmare they’d stumbled through all night.

Myla stirred again. It wasn’t a twitch this time. It was a shudder—sharp and sudden, running the length of her body. “Elira,” Kieran said under his breath, “watch her right arm—she’s—” Before he finished, Myla’s hand seized a handful of Elira’s sleeve, gripping so tightly the fabric strained. Her eyes didn’t open, but something behind the lids moved quickly, erratically.

“She’s burning up,” Elira whispered, heart pounding. “Kieran... this isn’t normal.”

“It’s the fever. And the climb. And the sap.” He steadied Myla’s weight as she jerked again. “We just need to get her somewhere enclosed. Somewhere the air isn’t... this.” Elira nodded, though worry carved itself deeper into her chest.

The fog behind them shifted, rolling up the slope like a slow tide. It didn’t sound closer. But it sounded awake. A cold gust swept down from the ridge so suddenly it made Elira gasp. The wind tunneled past them, carrying the earthy scent of stone—cleaner, stronger than before.

Kieran lifted his chin. “Smell that?” Elira did. And her heart leapt. Stone. Real stone. Close.

“How much farther?” she asked.

“Not far. The shelters are cut into the ridge wall—once the trees thin enough, we’ll see the first outcropping.” Elira pushed forward, focusing on the hope in his words rather than the dread following behind them.

The trees ahead thinned just slightly, enough for the fog to tear open into a narrow window of clearer air. Through it—for the first time—Elira saw the ridge face. Dark gray. Jagged. Ancient.

Her breath caught. “Kieran... I see it.” His shoulders exhaled tension she didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Good. Then we’re—” A small clatter of stone interrupted him. Elira froze, looking up instinctively. A few loose pebbles bounced down the ridge wall, skittering harmlessly across the stone. Nothing else moved.

Kieran let out a slow breath. “Just erosion,” he murmured. “Wind, maybe.” Elira nodded, though her pulse hammered in her throat. After everything tonight, even falling pebbles felt like a warning.

They climbed faster. The ridge rose higher ahead, dark and certain through the thinning mist. And for the first time since the night began, the wind—not the forest—was the only thing following them.

## The Stone Before Them

The ridge face grew taller with every step, its gray surface rising like a wall carved by time. The trees thinned with each breath they drew, replaced gradually by rock and wind and the faint echo of their own footsteps against stone.

Elira felt the change first in her lungs. The air wasn’t thick anymore. It was cold, sharp, almost clean. Myla sagged harder between them, her heat bleeding through Elira’s sleeve like fire. Sweat gathered again at Elira’s hairline despite the cold wind.

Kieran adjusted his grip for what felt like the twentieth time. “She’s weakening,” he muttered, voice tight. “We’re almost there,” Elira said, though she didn’t see the shelter yet. Only the stone. Only the slope. Only the thinning of the trees that made the world feel more exposed.

Another cold gust rushed down the ridge. This one carried something new—a faint echo. Not a creature. Not the forest. A hollow sound, like wind slipping past an opening in stone.

Kieran lifted his head. “Hear that?” Elira did. And her chest tightened with cautious hope. “Is that—?” “Yes,” he breathed. “An entrance.” They pushed forward, moving around the last cluster of pines. The ground grew more uneven but firmer, until roots gave way to slabs of weathered rock patched with lichen.

Then the fog tore open entirely. The ridge stood bare before them. And there—just beyond a rise in the stone—a dark shape broke the smoothness of the rock face. A carved opening. Low to the ground. Narrow. Outlined by old support beams weathered to a silvery gray.

Elira’s breath hitched. “Kieran—there.” He saw it at the same moment. Relief flickered across his face—brief, fragile, but real. “That’s one of the foothill shelters,” he said. “The lower ones. They’re small, but they’ll hold.”

But Myla chose that moment to convulse again. A violent jerk. Her hand clamped down on Elira’s sleeve so hard it pulled her off balance. Elira steadied her quickly, heart hammering. “Myla? Myla, can you hear me?” No answer. Only a low sound pressed between her teeth, a sound of pain or fear—it was impossible to tell.

Kieran’s voice dropped. “We need to get her inside. Now.” Elira nodded, gripping Myla tighter. Behind them, far down the slope, the forest gave a distant groan—deep, dragging, patient. It wasn’t closer. But it hadn’t left.

Elira tore her eyes from the trees. From the fog. From the unseen thing moving within it. Then she looked to the shelter again—dark, narrow, silent—waiting for them. And together, they moved toward it.

The final stretch to the shelter felt longer than the entire climb. The ground leveled just enough for them to move faster, Myla’s weight dragging less with each step. The carved entrance grew clearer in the thinning fog, its edges rough and weathered, framed by beams darkened from years of mountain storms.

Kieran reached it first. He shifted Myla carefully, freeing one hand to brush aside the stray branches clinging to the entrance. “It’s clear,” he said, though his voice held a tremor of urgency. “Go.”

Elira ducked inside first, guiding Myla’s legs over the stone threshold. The moment she crossed it, the world changed. The wind softened. The cold dimmed. The forest’s endless groaning faded into a distant hum. The air inside was still—old, dusty, but blessedly still.

Kieran followed, pulling the last of Myla’s weight through before he let the fogged world outside shrink to a narrow strip of gray. The shelter was small. Barely more than a carved-out chamber with a low ceiling and walls smoothed by long-ago tools. A stone bench lined one side. Old markings—scratches, perhaps warnings—covered the beams overhead.

Elira eased Myla down onto the bench, brushing the hair from her fever-hot forehead. Myla’s eyes fluttered beneath their lids, her breathing shallow and uneven. “She’s getting worse,” Elira whispered. Kieran knelt beside her, checking Myla’s pulse with steady but trembling fingers. “The fever’s spiking. The climb pushed her too hard.”

A gust of wind shoved against the entrance from outside, rattling the old beams. The fog swirled but did not enter. The air inside held firm, as if the stone itself refused to let the lowwood through. Elira exhaled shakily. “Do you think it can reach us here?”

“Stone stops most things,” Kieran said softly, uncertain.

Myla shifted, not with a twitch this time, but with a sharp intake of breath that sounded like it hurt. Her fingers curled weakly against the stone. Elira leaned close. “Myla? Can you hear me?” Only a faint sound escaped her—not a word, not even a whisper. Just something strained and small.

Kieran rose enough to look out the entrance one last time. Far below, the fog shivered. A tree groaned. Something enormous shifted its weight. But it didn’t climb. It didn’t approach. It simply… waited.

Kieran stepped away from the opening. “We’ll block the entrance before night comes,” he said quietly. Elira nodded, though her eyes never left Myla. For the first time since the clearing, they weren’t running. But this wasn’t safety. It was only a pause. Fragile. Thin. Temporary. And outside, the dying wood held its breath.