He didn't show up like a question you could ponder—he came like a storm rolling in: sudden, unstoppable, impossible to ignore.
Ronan stood framed in the doorway, cloak thrown back, fresh snow stuck to the edges. The firelight etched his face into sharp planes and shadows. His boots planted firmly on the threshold made the whole cabin feel smaller, like his presence swallowed the space. Lyra and Selvara froze mid-task, the scrolls on the table fluttering quietly as if nervous.
"You smell different this morning," he said. No malice, no softness—just plain fact like saying the sky was blue.
My throat tightened. I'd done my best to keep the secret locked down, to buy myself time after what the sisters uncovered. But scent travels like wildfire in the wild. It finds noses, it sparks questions. It had found Ronan.
