For a few heartbeats, Ashlynn let the sea take her.
That was what it felt like as the people of Blackwell surged forward to answer her open arms. A wave, warm and overwhelming, that pulled her under before she could brace herself against it. Hands reached for her from every direction, some tentative and trembling, others gripping with the fierce desperation of people who had been drowning for months and had finally found something solid to hold on to.
She moved through the sudden press of bodies the way a swimmer moves through a strong current, not fighting it but letting it carry her where it needed to while she reached out to touch each person she passed. A hand on a shoulder. A palm pressed against a weathered cheek. Fingers interlaced with fingers that were rough from lye soap or calloused from years of handling reins and harnesses.
