The clearing held its breath and the storm obeyed.
Rain slashed sideways in white ropes. Trees leaned and complained. Lightning kept trying to write the same broken letter over the canopy.
Through it, a figure stood - coat pasted to ribs, hair a dark smear, eyes burned down to embers. In the hollow of his chest, above the sternum, a stone pulsed: not bright gold, not kind - white-green, the color of old light under deep water. Each beat tugged the air.
Ichiro's shoulder answered.
Brown-yellow woke under his collarbone. Fine lines lit along his arm and went dark again, a flower that refused to open. His face didn't change.
"Hold position," Solomon said from the rear car. He didn't raise his voice. The storm made room for it anyway.
A Warden in the lead car cracked his window a finger's width and spoke into the rain. "Unknown individual. Identify, now."
The figure lifted his hand. The wind leaned in.
"Intruders" he muttered, voice scraped on rough years.
