Snow fell again.
Thin at first, then heavy. As if the storm had been waiting for the gate to vanish before reclaiming its place. The cold returned with it—the real kind, not the still, dead chill of before. Breath misted in the air. Trees creaked. The world remembered how to breathe.
But the camp did not move.
All eyes were on Leon.
He stood at the edge of where the gate had once been, his cloak shifting in the wind, his back straight but not tense. There was no sword in his hand. No visible magic. And yet no one dared speak.
Elena moved first. She stepped beside him, searching his face, his posture, anything that might tell her what lingered beneath his skin now. "Do you remember what happened?"
Leon didn't answer immediately.
Then: "Some of it. Not all."
He turned slightly, scanning the ridgeline where his troops stood ready. Some had lowered their weapons. Others still watched him like a stranger.
Kellen met his gaze. "Are you... still you?"
