Morning arrives without ceremony, light creeping through the high window of the visible suite until it paints pale lines across the stone floor, and I wake already aware of the bond, not because it flares or pulls sharply, but because it never left while I slept. It hums low beneath my ribs, steady and present, a reminder that even unconsciousness doesn’t grant me silence anymore.
I lie still for a moment, listening to the packhouse come alive beyond the door, boots striking stone in familiar rhythms, voices low and purposeful, the sound of routine settling into place like armor. On instinct, I match my breathing to it, slow and controlled, because grounding myself in ordinary things feels like the only way to keep from spiraling.
The guard outside shifts, a subtle change in scent and we
