AREN'S POV
The night did not fall all at once. It seeped into the world slowly, like ink spreading through water, softening edges and quieting the last remnants of daylight. From the high ridge overlooking the city, Aren stood motionless, his cloak stirring faintly in the wind. Below him, lanterns bloomed one by one, small constellations stitched into streets that no longer bent to fear or command.
He had stood in this place many times before—when the Wells screamed, when the sky fractured with power, when his name carried weight like a sentence. Tonight, the ridge felt different. The silence was not tense. It was listening.
Emma joined him without a sound, settling at his side as if she'd always belonged there. She followed his gaze down toward the city, then farther, to the dark outline of the hills beyond.
"They're nervous," she said quietly.
Aren nodded. "So am I."
"That's new."
"Not the feeling," he replied. "The honesty."
