They ran.
Through brambles that clawed at cloaks, down paths that hadn't been trodden in years, back toward the ruined orchard where silence had become stranger than sound. The dead watched them go—but did not follow.
Leon didn't slow.
He didn't speak until the grove's edge was behind them, until the first banners of sunlight bled through the eastern trees. Then he turned, breath tight in his chest, and spoke without looking back.
"Mount up. We leave Gorehill behind."
The riders obeyed without question. Whatever doubts they had—whatever questions—they buried them under steel and instinct. Only Elena lingered.
She stood in the clearing, face still pale. "He said I carry something. That I stole it."
Leon met her gaze. "You didn't. But it might still be inside you."
She didn't flinch. "Then you knew."
Leon looked past her, back toward the trees. "I only suspected. Since the Hollow. Since you touched the runes and they didn't burn."
Tomas rode up, shaking. "What happens now?"
