The creek narrowed into a ford where the water ran cold enough to bite, and the world above them folded its concerns into a thin wind that tasted of iron and old oats. Dawn was a rumor; the sky still held the twin arcs like drawn knives. The group moved through reeds, boots slipping in the wet, eyes tuned the way hunters tune ears: for the faintest change in birdcall, for the metallic echo of a machine's hinge.
Sofia walked at the lead, spear across her back like a proposition. Her face was calm for someone whose mind had been laying scaffolding for avoidance and contingency since the palimpsest's cry. Owen kept close to the vial, fingers checking his braces and counters as if he could hear the copper speak. Evelyn's voice hummed a soft lullaby as she walked, each line of it a small attempt to keep Mara tethered to what was human and warm. Mara herself swung close to Ash's side, small shoulders set like a child carrying a secret too heavy for her hands.
