The sky had not yet decided whether it wanted to surrender to morning or cling to the last threads of night. A thin, bruised-blue light hovered between the trees as Alyss and Raven moved through the forest, their boots slipping occasionally on the damp moss. The storm had passed, but its memory stayed behind in the dripping branches, in the sharp scent of wet earth, in the restless hush that felt like the world holding its breath.
Alyss wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The cold was tolerable; it was the weight of uncertainty that pressed harder against her ribs.
Raven walked beside her, silent, his expression shadowed beneath the hood of his coat. He had barely spoken since the moment he told her the truth—since the moment her entire understanding of herself had snapped, slightly, like an overstretched thread.
She didn't blame him for the silence. She didn't know what to say either.
Finally, she exhaled into the quiet. "Where are we going?"
