(Nova POV)
Dawn bled gray over the camp hidden in the gorge's throat—thin light filtering through pine needles, turning everything the color of old bruises. We'd pushed through the night after the outpost raid, the freed loyalists trailing us like ghosts until Kaelin and Silas split them off toward safer neutral territory. Now it was just us: five shadows around a cold fire pit, no smoke, no warmth. Only the low murmur of planning and the constant, living pull in my chest.
I sat apart, back against a fallen log, knees drawn up. One hand rested low on my abdomen—habit already, instinctive. The flicker inside answered: small, steady, impossibly real. Every time I felt it, the bond rippled in response. Damien knew. He felt it now, the same way I did. The awareness sat between us like a drawn blade—sharp, waiting.
Mara knelt in front of me, unpacking a small satchel of herbs and a single obsidian vial. Her movements were careful, almost reverent.
