Amaya dreamed of roots.
Not the kind that drank water and clung to soil, but vast, endless things that threaded through stone and darkness, humming softly like a living heart beneath the world. They pulsed in rhythm with her own heartbeat, and every time they did, something ancient shifted—stretching, listening.
She woke with a sharp inhale.
The cavern glowed softly, moss-light washing the stone in shades of blue and green. For a moment, she didn't know where she was.
Then she felt it.
Warmth at her side. A steady presence. A hand loosely curled near her own.
Calix.
She turned her head slowly. He sat on the edge of the furs, back against the cavern wall, one knee bent, head tipped slightly forward as he slept. His breathing was deep but uneven, as though even rest had to fight past vigilance.
There was dried blood along his ribs.
Her chest tightened.
"Calix," she whispered.
His eyes snapped open instantly—silver, sharp, already scanning.
