They moved at first light.
No banners. No orders. Just the quiet rhythm of boots over damp leaves and the steady hiss of breath in cold air.
The forest felt older this morning—older than the academy, older than their lives, older than the names they called their magic.
Branches knitted together overhead like ribs. The light that filtered through seemed filtered again by something invisible, dimmed as if the trees themselves were squinting.
Aerin lifted her staff and the head bloomed with a soft, steady radiance. "I'll keep a low lumen. If I go brighter, it'll distort the threads."
Beside her, Auron's palm opened and dark mist coiled from his fingers, trailing along the ground like a curious animal. "And I'll pull shadow lines apart. If something was woven here, we'll see what thread it used."
