Dawn crept into Beltin like a thief, sliding through cracks in shutters and the seams of sagging roofs. The night had been held at bay once more, though only just. Inside The Last Laugh, the fire had burned low, leaving the hearth stones faintly warm. The fellowship stirred slowly, doors opening and softly closing, boots scraping the floor, voices low and tired after their watch rotations.

Boaz rolled his shoulders, stiff from sleeping half upright against the wall. Thorne had lain across his legs, half guard, half comfort. Now the lynx rose, stretched with feline disdain, and padded toward the door. Boaz watched him, uneasy. The Sigil beneath his tunic lay still and cool, yet he could not shake the memory of the soft, deliberate knocks that had tested the shutters in the night.

“We should leave quickly,” Aldryn said. His voice was dry as the ash in the hearth. He pushed his chair back with a scrape, gathering his cloak around his shoulders. “Beltin survives by closing its doors, not opening them. Let us not tempt its methods by lingering.”

Tessa heard the stirring of the company and emerged from behind the counter again.

Theo’s stomach rumbled. “Do you still have breakfast? I’m starved. Breakfast is always worth its weight in coin for me.”

“Not mine,” Tessa shot back, but she brought out a tray all the same: fresh bread, a crock of butter, porridge, and a pitcher of tea. They slid their coins at her and she scooped them expertly into her apron.

They ate quickly, the mood subdued. Outside, the streets began to wake in their strange Beltin fashion. No laughter, no morning chatter, just the muted thump of shutters being propped open, the shuffle of brooms sweeping ash from doorways, the occasional clicking of a merchant unlocking a chest of wares.

Boaz glanced out a window. The light fell gray across the square, where a few children darted on errands, heads down, hands tucked tight to their sides. He recognized one of them, a boy who had watched Tink the day before with wide eyes as she tried to swipe an apple from a stall. The boy had laughed, a rare sound in Beltin, before his mother yanked him back behind her skirts.

That memory was still fresh in Boaz’s mind when the scream came.

It ripped through the morning stillness, sharp enough to still spoons halfway to mouths. A woman’s cry, raw and breaking: “My child! My son, he’s gone!”

The company was already on its feet. Jaxson was the first to the door, bow in hand. Lyra pressed to his side, face pale. Boaz followed, heart hammering. In the square, a woman stumbled barefoot across the cobbles, hair unbound, voice hoarse with grief. Townsfolk appeared in doorways, but none stepped forward. Even Tess stuck her head out, roused by curiosity. Everyone looked at each other in fear and helplessness.

The woman reached the fellowship and clutched at Boaz’s sleeve, eyes wild. “Please, you came here from your journey; you all seem decent and brave. You have to help me. My boy, ” She broke off in a sob, burying her face in her hands.

Theo glanced at Tessa. “What happened?”

Tessa’s expression had gone stony. “If a door’s left unbarred, if a child wanders after last bell… the city doesn’t expect them back.”

The woman grabbed at Boaz again, desperate. “You saw him yesterday, I know you did! He laughed at the little beast, he laughed!” She pointed at Tink, who squeaked nervously and scrambled up Theo’s arm. “That was the last laugh in my house. Please, please bring him home.”

A murmur rose from the gathered townsfolk. Some shook their heads, muttering: “It’s hopeless… the shadows take what they will.” Others looked away, unwilling to meet the mother’s eyes.

Aldryn’s mouth was a thin line. He stepped up quietly behind Boaz and to his side, leaned over, “The risk is more than you know,” he said to Boaz under his breath. “To chase into the city’s bones is folly.”

Boaz turned and met his gaze evenly. “And to let a child vanish while we stand here?” He looked around at the fellowship. “We can’t turn our backs. Not here. This is why they’ve lost hope.”

Kiera placed a trembling hand on Boaz’s arm, steadying herself, and looked up at Boaz, who nodded, knowing what she was going to say. Boaz answered for them all: “If the enemy feeds on silence and despair, then we answer with voices and hope. Let’s go.”

Jaxson strung his bow. “I’ll take the east alleys.”

Shaye tugged a knife free, her jaw set. “Then I’ll go west.”

Telen’s hand closed around his spear and had started tracking. Boaz shouted after all of them, “No splitting too far, and go in pairs, not alone. The shadows want us scattered.”

Lyra touched the mother’s shoulder gently. “We’ll find him. I swear it.”

The woman collapsed to her knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. “Bless you, bless you all.”

Tessa shook her head, muttering: “Fools. Brave fools. But if anyone can spit in the dark and walk away, it’ll be you lot.”

The fellowship stepped into the gray morning. The crowd parted reluctantly, their silence heavy, their eyes wide with the mix of awe and pity reserved for those who defy the order of things.

Boaz adjusted the strap across his chest and set his jaw. “We leave no one to the dark,” he said quietly. Thorne brushed his side, tail lashing, as if in answer.

The company fanned out cautiously, though never far enough to lose sight of each other. Beltin’s streets twisted like a maze drawn in haste: alleys narrowing between leaning houses, cobbles fractured where weeds forced through. Ash drifted in lazy spirals, though no smoke rose from the chimneys.

“Shadows shouldn’t stir by day,” Aldryn muttered, his staff tapping softly with each step. “Not unless the city itself is forgetting what day means.”

They began in the marketplace where the boy had last been seen. Stalls stood half-open, canvas sagging with damp, merchants muttering to themselves as if even haggling might draw unwanted ears. A fruit-seller looked up when Jaxson asked about the child. The man only shook his head and pointed down a narrow lane that sloped toward the riverbed.

Eira launched skyward with a flap of wings, circling overhead. Kiera shaded her eyes to follow. “Somehow, she sees footprints,” she said. “Small, fresh. Headed east.”

“East it is,” Jaxson said, already moving.

They followed the alley into a quarter where stonework turned older: Huma masonry, cracked and half-swallowed by newer plaster. The walls seemed to lean in, blotting the daylight. Mika strutted ahead, nose low, growl simmering in her chest. She darted suddenly into an archway, scattering a flock of pigeons. At the same time, a dark shape slipped back into the gloom before vanishing entirely.

Lyra’s hand tightened on her knife. “They’re watching us.”

“They always are,” Telen said, steady as stone.

At a split in the road, Thorne froze, tail stiff, ears flat. Boaz crouched to his side. The lynx’s gaze was fixed on a low shed whose door hung open, hinges broken. Tink, ever the opportunist, skittered down Theo’s arm and darted inside before anyone could stop her.

“Tink, no!” Theo hissed, stumbling after.

The raccoon returned a heartbeat later, dragging a scrap of cloth between her teeth. She dropped it proudly at Boaz’s boots: a strip of faded blue, torn from a child’s tunic.

“I’m pretty sure that’s his,” Boaz said. “If he was wearing the same clothes as when we saw him yesterday, anyway. He came this way.” Boaz stepped inside the shed, but it was small enough to immediately know he wasn’t there now. “I think the boy must’ve rested, or maybe hid, in here for a bit.”

The trail wound deeper into Beltin’s forgotten quarter. The houses here bore black stains along their bases, like veins pressed through stone. Windows had been bricked over long ago, but from within came faint sounds: scrapes, sighs, too deliberate for rats.

They pressed on. The air grew colder, though the sun had not yet climbed far. A low fog clung to the streets, pooling in the gutters, moving as though it had a mind.

Eira shrieked suddenly from above. A flutter of movement rippled along a rooftop, then stilled. Jaxson nocked an arrow, tracking the shape, but it melted into shadow before he could loose. “They’re bold,” he said grimly.

They reached the edge of the temple quarter: a row of broken columns half-swallowed by newer houses. Once, Beltin’s faith had been carved in stone here; now the carvings were worn to ghostly shapes. The child’s footprints led straight toward the steps of a ruined shrine.

Boaz felt the Sigil stir faintly, a cool pulse under his tunic. He touched it with one hand. “He’s close.”

“Or they want us to think he is,” Aldryn said.

Mika gave a sharp bark and lunged forward, scattering the mist. In the clearing beyond, a small figure crouched on the temple steps. A boy, barefoot, head bowed, his small hands limp at his sides.

Lyra gasped. “It’s him.”

But as they hurried closer, the air thickened with whispers. At first faint, like wind in reeds, then sharper, unmistakable.

“Jaxson…” a voice called to him, clear as memory. It was his younger sister, Tessa’s voice, taken by the Fallen in Forlon. “You never found me. Won’t you come back and find me? Please? I’m so cold here.”

Jaxson’s jaw clenched. He lowered his bow, breath ragged.

“Kiera…” another voice, directed at her alone, lilting with song. Her father’s tune, the one he sang when storms rattled the roof of their house. “You couldn’t protect me, or heal me, what makes you think you can help anyone?” Kiera froze, tears springing unbidden.

And then: “Boaz…” It was Truan’s voice, warm, steady. “Son, come home. Let the others go. You don’t need to carry this. You’re a blacksmith’s apprentice, and I need you here.”

Boaz stumbled, the cloth scrap slipping from his hand. The Sigil thrummed hard under his palm, half warning, half answer. Thorne growled low and shoved against his leg, grounding him.

Aldryn’s face had gone pale. He pressed his staff hard into the ground, muttering words beneath his breath. They were not incantations, not spells, but old lines, half-remembered, drawn from a place he had sworn to keep hidden. He was trying to remember them…

“One voice shall wake the broken song…”

The whispers faltered, wavering like candle flames in wind.

Lyra, inexplicably, seized on the rhythm and chanted the words aloud, more clear and steady: “One voice shall wake the broken song…”

The alley stilled. The boy on the steps lifted his head, dazed, as though the fog had thinned around him. Aldryn’s eyes flicked to Boaz, troubled, but he said nothing.

Boaz took a breath, tightened his grip on Thorne’s scruff, and stepped forward. “Hold the voices back,” he said. “I’ll bring him.”

The boy crouched on the cracked steps of the ruined temple, his small frame shivering in the fog. His eyes were wide but unfocused, as though he looked past the fellowship into some world only he could see. The voices coiled tighter. Not wind, not air, voices. Known, trusted, unbearable.

“Jaxson…” Tessa’s voice again, soft and broken. Tessa. His little sister. “You left me behind. You promised you’d keep me safe. But you let me die.”

Jaxson stopped as if struck. His bow sagged in his grip, string slack between trembling fingers. He could almost see her: sooty cheeks, hair tangled, eyes wet with betrayal. His breath caught. “Tessa… no…”

Beside him, Kiera staggered when the voice came again, deep and weary, warm with memory. Her father. “Kiera, come home, lass. Lay down the weapon. You’ve fought enough. You were never meant to bear this. Just come back to me.”

Her mace slipped lower. She blinked hard, but the mist shimmered with the shape of broad shoulders, a hand outstretched. She wanted so desperately to take it, to believe for a moment that he could still be alive. Her knees bent as if to kneel.

Boaz’s heart slammed when he heard his father again. Truan’s voice carried the ring of iron and fire. “Son, it’s over. Come home. Let the others bear their fates, you don’t have to. There’s no shame in living a quiet life. A forge. A family. Peace.”

The vision was too real. He saw the forge glowing, smelled the coals, felt the weight of a hammer in his hand. He saw a wife’s smile, children running in the yard. A life whole, untouched by Sigils and shadows. His grip on the cloth scrap loosened, his legs taking a step forward before he even knew it.

Theo groaned as laughter echoed in his ears. “Toys, boy. Tricks and toys. What do you think you are, playing at stone and rune? You’ll never hold back the dark.” His face crumpled. Even Tink squirmed in his cloak, whining low as if feeling the bite of the words.

Shaye’s knife wavered when she heard the marsh voices of kin long gone: “You left us. You fight with strangers while your own drown. Traitor.”

The fog pressed in thicker, almost tender. The fellowship faltered, weapons sagging, eyes glazed with grief and longing. Only Thorne stood rigid, tail lashing, a growl rolling deep from his chest.

Boaz’s step wavered toward the boy. Just one step more. Just let the hammer fall and the burden slip…

A staff cracked against stone. Aldryn’s voice ripped the air, harsh and desperate, nothing of scholarly calm in it. He shouted words as if throwing them like a weapon:

“One voice shall wake the broken song…
Not born to rule, but right a wrong!”

The fog jolted, quivering. The whispers stuttered as though something had broken their rhythm. For a heartbeat, silence pressed close.

Lyra gasped, eyes flying to Aldryn. She caught the cadence again, seized it, and chanted the lines she heard from Aldryn. Her voice rose, trembling but fierce.

The mist recoiled, hissing like steam off stone. The boy stirred, blinking as if a veil had lifted. But the voices returned sharper, fighting back, shouting over the chant:

“Jaxson, save me this time!”
“Kiera, don’t leave me again!”
“Boaz, choose peace, not chains!”

Jaxson dropped to one knee, hands over his ears. “I can’t… I can’t.”

“Stand up!” Lyra cried, voice breaking. “Speak the words!”

Kiera sobbed aloud, torn between the phantom hand of her father and the reality of Mika pressing warm against her leg. She forced the words out, ragged and cracked.

Her voice broke as she said it, but it was enough.

Jaxson lifted his head, tears streaking ash on his cheeks. He forced sound through his throat, each word like tearing against grief.

Theo shouted the couplet like a battle cry, hoarse and furious. Shaye spat it like a curse, sharp as her knife.

The chant gained ground.

Boaz clenched his teeth, the vision of the forge tearing at him, the ache of what could never be almost more than he could bear. He pressed both hands against the Sigil burning in his chest. “No,” he growled. “I’m not leaving them.” His voice spoke the words, raw with defiance.

The Sigil flared. The chant thundered. Familiars added their cries: Eira shrieked overhead, Mika barked, Thorne roared his fury, Kestel wheeled and screamed, Tink squeaked with unexpected ferocity.

The whispers shattered. The mist split like cloth ripped down the seam. The temple steps stood clear, the boy gasping awake, tears streaming his soot-streaked face. Boaz surged forward, swept him into his arms. The child clung to his tunic, breath shallow but alive.

The fellowship stood together in the courtyard before the temple, chanting, voices breaking, tears on faces, but they held the words. The darkness recoiled, shredded, withdrawing into cracks and corners.

When silence came, it was not hollow. It was theirs.

Aldryn leaned on his staff, sweat on his brow, eyes haunted. He had not meant to speak those lines here, not yet. The prophecy was meant for parchment and councils, not cobbled streets and desperate mouths. But the power was undeniable.

Boaz met his gaze, chest heaving. “You knew this.”

“I feared it,” Aldryn rasped. “But fear is no longer an excuse.”

Lyra wiped her cheeks, voice hoarse but sure. “We’ll teach them. They need it.”

The boy whimpered softly against Boaz’s chest. Boaz held him tighter, then turned back toward the square. “Then we start now.”

Together, the company stepped down from the temple quarter, carrying not just a rescued child, but words that had become a weapon: prophecy forged into hope.

They crossed Beltin’s narrow lanes with the boy clutched against Boaz’s chest, his small body shivering, his face pressed into the folds of Boaz’s cloak. The fog had thinned, yet its memory clung to every shutter and doorway.

Word spread faster than footsteps. By the time they reached the marketplace, doors had cracked open and heads leaned out. The sight of the fellowship, emotionally scarred, weary, but still standing, with a living child in their arms drew the people like moths to a stubborn flame.

The boy’s mother broke from the crowd with a cry that pierced even thicker than her wail at dawn. She fell to her knees, arms outstretched. Boaz knelt and placed the child gently into them. The boy stirred, blinking, and whispered a single word: “Mama.”

She gathered him tight, sobbing into his hair. Her hands shook as though she feared he might vanish again. “You brought him back,” she whispered over and over, rocking him. “You brought him back.”

For a long moment, there was no sound in the square but her weeping and the boy’s thin coughs. Then, slowly, the crowd pressed closer, eyes wide with disbelief.

“No one returns after last bell,” an old man said hoarsely. “No one.”

“They did,” someone else murmured. “Look, they did.”

Lyra crouched near the boy, brushing his hair gently back. “He’ll be weak, but he’s safe. He’ll need food, rest, and… and voices. Keep good voices around him. He listened too long to the wrong ones.”

The mother nodded fiercely, as if the command were gospel.

Boaz turned in a slow circle, scanning the crowd. “Some of you’ve lost children, friends, family, haven’t you?”

Faces tightened. Some looked down. A few nodded.

“Then you know why we couldn’t leave him,” Kiera said, her voice thick. She glanced at Boaz, and he nodded once, steady.

The boy coughed again, then fell asleep against his mother’s shoulder. She looked up at the fellowship, tears streaming, and whispered, “Tell us how. Tell us what you did.”

The square hushed. Dozens of eyes fixed on the company, expectant, hungry.

Aldryn shifted, clearly uncomfortable. His staff clicked once against the stones. “It was not… simple.”

“They need to know,” Lyra pressed.

“They need to live,” Aldryn countered. His tone was sharper than usual, though his eyes darted uneasily.

Boaz stepped forward, lifting his voice just enough to carry. “They tried to drown us in voices; voices of those we loved. They wanted us to falter, to be pulled away, to give in. But when we spoke against them, when we spoke louder, they broke.”

“Words broke them?” a merchant asked skeptically.

“Not just words,” Boaz said. His gaze swept the crowd. “Truth. We spoke prophetic lines, old lines, maybe older than this city. And it pushed them back.” He turned to Lyra. “Teach them, please.” Lyra’s throat worked, but she drew breath and let the words rise, simple and strong:

“One voice shall wake the broken song,
Not born to rule, but right a wrong.”

The rhythm and cadence carried across the square, weaving through the hush. Townsfolk shifted, murmuring, some repeating the words softly as if tasting them.

“It’s prophecy,” Aldryn said tightly, unable to contain it. “Dangerous to speak without understanding…”

“Dangerous to stay silent,” Shaye cut in. She planted her knife point-first into a post and left it quivering. “You hide in silence, and the dark owns you. Better to shout, even if your voice cracks.”

A ripple of agreement passed through the crowd.

An old woman at the back lifted her chin and repeated the lines in a thin but steady voice. A child echoed her. Soon a handful joined, unpracticed, uncertain, but trying.

Theo grinned, though his eyes were red. “See? Even Beltin can remember a tune.”

Tessa wiped her hands on her apron, watching from the inn’s doorway. Her face was unreadable, but she didn’t stop them. When a pair of boys shouted the lines too loudly and laughed, she muttered, “Fools,” but she didn’t send them away.

The mother clutched her son tighter, tears still flowing. “Thank you,” she whispered to Boaz, voice breaking. “For giving us back more than just my boy. For giving us something to fight with.”

Boaz swallowed, unsure what to say. The Sigil pulsed faintly beneath his tunic, not burning, not cold, just alive, like it too had listened. At last he spoke up again, voice rough. “It won’t end the shadow. But it’ll remind you that you can fight, and have hope.”

The people nodded, some already repeating the words under their breath like prayer. Aldryn stood apart, watching with troubled eyes. The prophecy was loose now, no longer hidden in brittle parchment but alive in the mouths of common folk. He had always feared prophecy; it twisted, misled, destroyed those who leaned too heavily on it. Yet he could not deny what he had seen. The chant worked.

“Beltin has lived by silence,” Boaz said, his voice low but carrying. “Now live by this instead. When they come, don’t close your doors and wait for dawn. Speak. Shout. Break them with your voices.”

For the first time in years, perhaps decades, Beltin’s square did not sound hollow.

The crowd dispersed slowly, each carrying the lines home. Some muttered them; others chanting half-aloud. Children skipped, turning the chant into a playful rhythm. Doors did not slam shut in fear, they closed more slowly, voices behind them still audible.

As the fellowship stood in the emptying square, Kiera whispered, “We gave them more than hope. We gave them back their voices.”

Boaz shifted the strap on his shoulder, the weight of the Sigil pressing steady against him. He looked east, where the road stretched beyond Beltin’s walls. The storm that had loomed the day before was breaking apart, leaving streaks of pale blue across the sky.

Aldryn approached him, speaking low. “You don’t understand what you’ve loosed.”

Boaz met his gaze. “Maybe not. But we’ve given them hope, and a weapon to defend themselves.”

Aldryn looked away, lips pressed tight, but did not argue. The company mutually agreed to spend one more night, to ensure that the newfound hope they gave would hold. That night, when the bell tolled the last call, the city fell into an uneasy silence for a while. When the knocks started, on the doors and shutters, a murmur arose from within. The chants invariably wavered at first, then became steadier:

“One voice shall wake the broken song,
Not born to rule, but right a wrong.”

The sound wove through the lanes, soft but unbroken. And the darkness, prowling as ever, faltered.

Inside The Last Laugh, the fellowship sat in silence, listening. For once, silence did not feel like fear, it felt like the absence of it.

Boaz leaned against the window, watching lanterns burn in doorways, hearing voices refusing to yield. He let his hand rest over the Sigil, feeling its pulse match the rhythm of the chant.

For the first time since entering Beltin, he smiled.

The chant wound through Beltin’s streets like a river in the dark. Not strong yet, not practiced, but present. From doorway to doorway, voice to voice, the couplet carried, a thread stitching silence into something else, driving away the hauntings.

Inside The Last Laugh, the hearth had burned low. Shadows moved in gentle lines across the beams. The fellowship settled around the long table, each with the same hollow look of exhaustion and wakefulness. They were too tired to talk, too stirred to sleep.

Thorne stretched beneath Boaz’s chair, eyes half-shut but ears still twitching at every sound outside. Mika had curled at Lyra’s feet, tail flicking whenever the chant swelled. Kestel preened on the mantle, feathers glinting in firelight. Eira stood sentinel on Kiera’s arm, head cocked toward the shutters. Even Tink, usually restless, had made a nest in Theo’s hood and dozed with her paws tucked to her chin.

Tessa wiped down the counter with decisive sweeps, casting sharp glances at the barred door. “Well,” she muttered, “you’ve gone and made them chant. Don’t know if that’s brave or stupid. Maybe both.” She doused one lamp, left another, and disappeared into the back, her tread heavy but not unfriendly.

At the corner table, Lucar closed the book he had been skimming. He had been at the inn, or about the town, all day, interviewing citizens, and taking notes in his book. Now, he rose with practiced grace, offered the company a nod that was both courteous and unobtrusive. “A stirring thing to witness,” he said softly. “You’ve given Beltin a gift. Thank you for sharing it with strangers as well as neighbors.” He smiled faintly. “Sleep well.”

He climbed the stairs, his steps fading above. The fellowship heard the muted click of a door. They did not notice the brief pause at the landing, nor the silence that lingered too long before that door truly shut.

Only when he was gone did Aldryn turn back to them. He planted his staff across the table as though to draw a line. “We should speak,” he said.

Lyra was the first to break the quiet. “Those words,” she said, eyes fixed on him. “Where did they come from?”

Aldryn tapped his fingers against the wood. “A book,” he said.

Theo raised a brow. “My, how specific. Which book? The one you use to prop your tea?”

“Cirol,” Aldryn said. His dry wit had vanished. “In the council’s private library.”

Jaxson leaned forward. “And you’ve known them how long?”

“Long enough to fear them,” Aldryn said, voice low. “Not long enough to trust them. Until tonight.”

Kiera’s gaze sharpened. “So you kept them from us.”

“I kept them from everyone,” Aldryn snapped, then softened just enough to take the edge off. “Prophecy is not a road map. It’s a fog. People see what they want, and then blindly follow it off cliffs.”

Lyra’s hands tightened around her mug. “Yet when we were drowning, you spoke them.”

“Yes,” Aldryn admitted. His mouth thinned. “Because drowning has a way of silencing caution.”

Boaz leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’ve read more than you’ve said.”

Aldryn’s eyes flicked to him, searching. “Perhaps.”

“Then tell us,” Boaz pressed. “Do those words mean me?”

Aldryn’s gaze slid away to the embers. “It means someone. It means no one. Prophecy plays both games at once. It doesn’t wear name tags.”

“But you thought of me,” Boaz said quietly.

“I thought,” Aldryn replied, “that you are kind enough to mistake a burden for a calling, and stubborn enough to carry both.”

The words landed heavy. No one rushed to fill the silence. Jaxson broke it at last, scowling. “So what, we just wait for the next drowning before you throw us a rope?”

Aldryn’s sarcasm returned, brittle. “You’ve a knack for survival, Jaxson. I assumed you’d float awhile without me.”

Kiera smoothed a hand along Eira’s wing. “You don’t trust prophecy.”

“I don’t trust readers,” Aldryn said. “Including myself.”

Lyra’s eyes stayed on him. “But it worked.”

Aldryn exhaled through his nose. “Yes. Which is why it troubles me most of all.”

Theo scratched at his stubble. “If it troubles you, what do you call it for us? Comforting?”

Shaye stabbed her knife into the table’s edge and left it there. “I call it useful. Better than silence.”

The words seemed to ripple through the group, a consensus forming not by vote but by exhaustion: the lines might be dangerous, but they were theirs now. Outside, the chant swelled again: wavery voices joining into something almost strong.

Boaz stood and crossed to the window. He pressed his hand to the shutter, feeling the rhythm on the other side. “They’re not whispering anymore,” he said softly.

Thorne rose and brushed against his leg, tail curling. Boaz let his hand drop to the lynx’s head, steadying himself against the living warmth. The Sigil pulsed faintly under his tunic, answering the cadence.

Aldryn gathered his cloak and staff, eyes shadowed. “We leave at first light. While hope is still louder than habit.”

No one argued.

The lamps were doused one by one. The fire sank to embers. Outside, the chants sounded from within houses and shops as the inhabitants heard the knocks. And each time, the knocks dwindled and moved on to the next block.

On the landing above, a floorboard creaked. But the company, weary at last and ready for bed, heard nothing.

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