Dawn came slow.
The kind of slow that felt like the sky was trying to decide whether it should bother rising at all. The air tasted heavy, buzzing with the kind of pressure that crawled along the shell and settled behind the eyes. The forest didn't move the way it usually did. Trees didn't sway. Leaves didn't rustle. Everything held its breath.
Zza stood at the edge of the clearing, silk drawn through her claws again and again, tightening, loosening, tightening. She hated waiting. Waiting meant thinking. Thinking meant imagining everything that could go wrong in long, spiraling corridors of fear.
Buzz stood beside her. Still. Too still. He looked like he was listening to something no one else could hear.
