---
In the outer valley throat, Shadeclaw and Skyweaver bent over a sand map that Silvershadow had sketched with a thin blade. The lines were neat, the distances honest. Small marks indicated wind shears, loose shelves, and narrowings where a formation would pinch itself without noticing. Silvershadow saw him and dipped his head. Shadeclaw tapped a cluster of marks and turned a question into a look. He met it with a nod. They flowed away into the night without a word.
The mountain was doing what he asked. That was the thing about a home. If you tended it when the days were quiet, it would carry you when the days grew loud.
He returned to the council hall and sat alone on the lowest step, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He let the pressure in his chest find a shape. It did not feel like fear. It felt like a drawn bow waiting for the string to be plucked.
