Frost-brittle air settled over the grove like a vow no one dared break. Each exhale from Draven's small column coiled into small, perfect clouds that fractured in the slanted sunlight before drifting away—ghosts too thin to linger. The departure should have felt momentous, but it carried the hush of a secret instead, as though the western ridge were swallowing every sound the moment boots touched the first slope.
Draven adjusted nothing about his stride or posture when the wind picked up, though the gust tugged at his cloak hard enough to snap the hem against his calves. The braid Sylvanna had offered remained tucked under the first leather strap of his gear harness, a muted sparkle whenever morning light found the storm-threads. He did not glance at it, but he understood it was there—an unfamiliar weight just above the heartbeat he preferred to pretend he no longer noticed.
