The terror did not recede with the dawn. It lingered in the Place of the First Note like a bad smell, a psychic chill that their newfound warmth could not dispel. The Listening Rod lay where it had fallen, a dark, accusatory stick against the vibrant green of the garden. The brave carvings on the pump seemed less like declarations of victory and more like desperate graffiti on the walls of a fragile fortress.
Elian's hands still trembled. The memory of that pulling hunger was a visceral wound. He looked at his people—Aven clinging to Mara's leg, Corvin's face ashen, the others huddled together—and saw the hard-won light in their eyes guttering. They had been children taking their first steps, only to look up and see a wolf staring from the edge of the woods.
"It felt us," Elian said, his voice rough. He didn't need to shout. The silence was absolute. "It knows we are here. Our song… it is food for the silence."
