The late autumn of Sahan air slid between them, November cold settling over the garden like a quiet verdict. The wind threaded through hedges and caught the ends of Dax's white-blonde hair, carrying the faint metallic chill of approaching winter. It lingered, patient and unsettling, like something testing the strength of bones before deciding whether to break them.
Chris stood in the hush of it.
Frost traced the hedges around him in delicate crystalline filigree, and the cold belonged to him. Breath misted faintly between them, his chest rising, calm in a way that made the whole scene surreal. Heather was close behind him, wrapped in the protection of Chris's presence and pheromones, breath too fast, eyes too wide, but upright and very much alive.
Dax stopped.
The world did not.
Branches rustled. Gravel whispered. A fallen leaf skidded across stone. The bodies on the ground remained motionless. Rowan's presence lingered somewhere nearby like a shadow with intent.
