I stare at the token.
For a moment, nothing else exists. Not the ring of wolves holding the clearing. Not the night air pressing damp and cool against my skin. Not even the steady thrum of my own heartbeat, which seems to have dropped out entirely, like it’s waiting for instructions I haven’t given yet. There is only the object on the dirt between my boots, catching a sliver of moonlight like it wants to be seen, like it knows exactly what it’s doing here.
Layla’s body holds steady.
No sway. No bristle. No instinctive step forward or back.
Inside, something goes razor sharp.
The token isn’t generic. It isn’t symbolic in the vague, performative way outsiders sometimes try to be impressive, flashing relics or stolen marks like they expect reverence to do the work for them. This is speci
