The cottage felt heavier than usual.
Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the fact that Elijah was somewhere out there bleeding, running, hiding, while I stood inside the four wooden walls. But the truth was simpler: this place was no longer mine to linger in. My path was already set the moment he said her name.
Marcella Luminaries.
Alive.
I needed to awaken. Everything else was noise.
I stood near the small table where Elijah probably used to polish his weapons, my fingers tracing a shallow cut in the wood. The room still smelled—oil, metal, a hint of damp leather—and under it all, the faint sweetness of whatever herbs he used to rub on Sylveon's fur. The air hummed with memories I didn't want to carry, and I tried to shake the weight off my shoulders.
Behind me, the soft click of claws echoed on the wooden floor.
[You're leaving. Aren't you?]
