The rain begins before dawn.
Not the kind that crashes and floods, not the kind that roars loud enough to drown thought. This rain falls steady and thin, silver threads stitching the valley to the sky. It turns the stone paths slick and the lake into rippling glass. It dampens sound.
The sanctuary feels smaller in the rain.
Closer.
As if the world beyond the mountains has narrowed its eyes and decided to wait.
Aurora stands beneath the ridge overhang, watching wolves move through the drizzle with quiet efficiency. Supplies are redistributed. Routes adjusted again. Scouts return with maps inked in smudged charcoal, new crossings marked in uncertain lines.
No one speaks Darius Vell's name loudly.
But it is there.
In the way the guards shift positions twice instead of once.
In the way the children are never left alone near the outer boundary.
In the way even laughter feels careful.
