Peace is a fragile thread.
And sometimes, it frays before you even feel the pull.
A week had passed since the rift closed above Moon Pack lands, and though the air no longer cracked with magic, a quiet tension loomed in every corridor. The Flame Keepers stayed longer than expected. The High Council did not return north. And Ashara though free of her rage remained a beacon of discomfort among the elders.
Even Auren had grown distant.
I found him in the training yard each morning, burning frost into his palms and watching it melt.
"She's not gone," he said one day without turning. "Even now, I feel something beneath us. Like a heartbeat."
I stood beside him. "We sealed the rift."
"No," he said. "We sealed a tear. Not the root."
The words clung to me.
Because he was right.
Ashara was no longer a threat. But the thing that made her that called to her that whispered through mirrors and flame that was still out there.
Lucas arrived with fresh parchment and reports.
