The five figures on the ridge did not move for a long time.
They stood cut against the dying light like something carved into the horizon itself, wind pulling at coats and loose hair, watching Snow Team with the same hard caution Snow Team watched them. The town behind Felicity still smelled of cooling blood and broken glass. The shrine Pope and Ash had stacked near the ruined café caught the last smear of sun, the small scrap of paper promising the vineyard weighted beneath stone.
Victor did not step forward first.
He waited.
The red of Felicity's dress held the light like a living thing, soft fabric brushing her knees in the breeze, and she could feel every eye on her, including the five at the ridge.
"Stay," Victor murmured, low enough only she and her husbands heard.
"I'm not charging up there," she whispered back.
Damien's tail brushed lightly against the back of her thigh, grounding.
Voss's gaze never left the ridge.
