( …continued at Calareth)
The wind off the coast was sharp enough to sting skin raw.
Autumn walked ahead of everyone, boots sinking into wet sand, dress torn at the hem, one sleeve half-burnt from whatever hell had unfolded a few moments before. Salt clung to her hair. Blood—hers or someone else's—had dried in thin, ugly lines along her jaw.
She did not slow down.
Behind her, the all brand new grown-up version of her son followed like he was out for a lazy evening stroll instead of a temporal catastrophe. Hands shoved into his pockets. Shoulders loose. That ridiculous, unbothered swagger in his step—like he owned the shoreline, this world he stepped back in, the entire time line. That cocky bastard.
Jasper even whistled.
Autumn shot him a look over her shoulder.
He grinned wider.
