SILAS POV
I woke up on cold ground.
Not the sharp, biting kind that shocks you awake—but a gentler cold, the kind that seeps in slowly, patiently, making you aware of your body without hurting it. Damp earth pressed into my palms when I shifted, gritty and solid and unmistakably real.
I drew in a breath.
It tasted… clean.
Too clean.
No smoke. No blood. No antiseptic sting. Just air—cool, thin, untouched. Like it hadn’t been disturbed in a very long time.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows and looked around.
A clearing.
Wide. Circular. Perfect—not in a threatening way, but in the way something ancient and deliberate might be. The trees formed a ring around me, evenly spaced, tall and pale, their bark catching the light like frost or pearl. They didn’t move. No wind stirred their bra
