The dawn did not break; it bled into the sky, a bruise of purple and grey over the Whispering Range.
Kael woke with the sensation of falling. He sat bolt upright in his cot, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, his lungs gasping for air as if he had been held underwater.
The cottage was silent. The only sound was the scratching of a rat in the thatch and the dull throb of his own blood in his ears. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. They felt... used. His muscles ached with a deep, sour lactic burn, the kind he usually felt after a fourteen-hour day felling oaks. But he had slept. He had gone to bed at sunset, exhausted by the emotional weight of the day.
He swung his legs over the side of the cot and stopped.
His feet were caked in mud.
It wasn't the dry, dusty earth of his cottage floor. It was thick, black river-mud, pungent and smelling of decay. It was dried between his toes and smeared up to his ankles.
"Sleepwalking?" Kael muttered, rubbing his face. His voice sounded raspy, unfamiliar. "Great. Now I'm losing my bloody mind, too."
He stood up, his knees protesting, and walked to the water basin. He scrubbed the mud away, the water turning a murky brown. As he reached for a towel, a flash of memory hit him—not a visual, but a sensation. Cold wind. The smell of raw meat. A feeling of immense, towering height.
He shook his head, dismissing it as the remnants of a fever dream. He opened the cottage door to let in the morning air.
On the wooden step, neatly arranged in the center, lay a sparrow.
Kael froze. Dead birds were common enough; cats left them, or the frost took them. But this was different. There was no blood. The feathers were unruffled, smooth and perfect. The bird looked peaceful, except for the angle of its head.
The neck had been snapped. Not bitten, not shaken. Snapped with a precise, surgical pinch.
Kael stared at it, a wave of nausea rolling in his gut. It looked... ritualistic. An offering. Or perhaps, a test.
Across the valley, in the silk-draped luxury of the Chief's Manor, Elara opened her eyes.
She did not gasp. She did not tremble. She inhaled deeply, savoring the air that smelled of lavender sachets and polished wood. For the first time in years, she didn't feel the heavy, crushing weight of her own melancholy. She felt electric.
Beside her, Chief Haru was stirring. He rolled over, blinking sleep from his eyes. "Elara? You're awake early."
Elara turned to him. Her movement was fluid, predatory. She smiled, and the room seemed to brighten, though the light didn't reach her eyes.
"The world is waiting, husband," she purred. She reached out and ran a hand down his arm. Haru flinched, surprised by the heat radiating from her skin. usually, she was cool to the touch, like marble. Today, she burned.
"You feel... well," Haru stammered, struggling to sit up.
"I feel reborn," Elara said. She threw back the covers and stood. She didn't reach for her robe immediately. She stood naked in the morning light, letting Haru look at her. Usually, she was modest, shy. Today, she stood with her shoulders back, her chin lifted, radiating a raw, terrifying confidence.
Haru watched her, confused but undeniably aroused. He didn't see the shadow that seemed to stretch a little too far from her heels. He only saw his wife, finally alive.