Dawn did not arrive gently.
It tore through the Northern Veil in pale, fractured ribbons, light catching on torn leaves and scorched stone, glinting off the scars left behind by the night. The Blackclaw estate stood wounded but unbroken, its towers blackened, its walls cracked, smoke still curling lazily from places where fire had kissed stone too fiercely. The forest around it was quiet in the way that followed violence not peaceful, but watchful, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Selara stood at the edge of the inner courtyard, boots sinking slightly into damp earth darkened by blood and ash. The silver veins beneath her skin pulsed faintly, not blazing, not hidden restless. Awake. They traced along her wrists and disappeared beneath the sleeves of her coat, glowing softly whenever her pulse spiked.
She hadn't slept.
