Dawn crept reluctantly over the horizon, its pale light brushing across the ruins like a hesitant hand afraid to touch what had been broken beyond repair. The cold hung thick around the shattered manor, and the wind made a low, mournful sound as it slipped through empty windows and collapsed beams—like the ruin itself was whispering to the dead.
Logan pulled his cloak tighter and exhaled a cloud of white breath. His boots were wet with dew. His patience, thin.
"Hey, Netser. We've been standing here since dawn. Aren't you tired of looking?" he asked, irritation laced through his voice. Netser had hauled him out of a warm bed, tearing him from a dream of Thalia's soft smile—a cruel exchange for the bleakness now before him.
But Netser didn't flinch. He didn't blink, didn't even seem to hear him.
His eyes, usually sharp, alert, stubborn as iron—were fixed on the ruins with a hollow intensity that made Logan's annoyance dissolve into unease.
