The march changed.
Not in speed, nor in form. But in rhythm.
The sound of boots against snow no longer felt like travel. It felt like echo—like something was walking with them, or behind them, or underneath. The air thickened as they entered the lowlands, where the trees grew sparser and the hills sloped like folding arms. It had not snowed here in days. But the ground remained pale, like the land itself had remembered winter and refused to forget.
Leon led the column still.
But he didn't set the pace.
Something else did.
He moved like he knew where he was going. But he didn't. He only knew why.
They were heading south. Toward the ruins. Toward the monastery long buried by time and vine and vow.
Toward the child.
He could feel her, now. Not like a person. Like a note struck too cleanly across a broken instrument. Constant. Off. Familiar.
Beside him, Elena rode silently. She had stopped asking questions. There was no point.
