d in stories. It was quiet, hes

his throat. The air smelled... alive. Like wet stone and old pine and someth

nd it had deepened. The rooftop across from his attic dissolved, replaced by

ing, Elian st

me shaped like a teardrop. Strange vines curled in the mist, whispering names he didn't understand.

f the path s

ers, her hair braided with lightning t

thirteenth ch

n no

remem

es

e one of us