The note burns in my hand.
Three words. That is all it takes to unravel the thin thread holding me together.
The Luna knows.
I stare until the letters blur into streaks of dark ink, until I cannot tell if the trembling across the page is my pulse or the moonlight reflecting off it. My heartbeat thunders inside my chest, too loud for the fragile silence of my room. Too loud for the lie of safety the packhouse walls pretend to offer.
I fold the note with shaking hands, shove it into my pocket, and move before I can talk myself out of it. My body feels like it belongs to someone else, as if the threads of the bond and the memory of the eclipse in my vision are dragging me toward an answer I do not want.
Outside, night breathes cold air across my skin. Pine trees sway gently, their branch
