Cael kept two journals now.
The first was for Marcus—cold and clinical, written like a soldier's report. Guard counts, patrol routes, the armory's location, the weak points in the wall.
The second was for himself.
They have children here. Schools. Elders who teach and young ones who learn. They laugh, they grieve, they live, the same as anyone.
I don't know if they're monsters. I don't know if they're threats. But I know they're not what Marcus said they were.
He wrote in it every night by the light of a sliver of moon, a small and quiet rebellion that didn't resolve anything or change anything, but reminded him, if only for a few minutes, of who he used to be.
On the fifth day, everything changed.
Cael was hiding in his thicket, watching the village the way he'd watched it every day for a week, when a group of children came spilling out through the gate, led by a tall figure with golden fur and the unmistakable bearing of a soldier.
