The moment Bree steps into view beside me, a ripple moves through the crowd like wind over water. I watch faces change—hope bleeding into awe, awe sharpening into something hungrier. Calculation hiding behind reverence.
They're already rewriting her story and she hasn't even opened her mouth.
Bree takes a shaky breath, then steps forward. I catch the slight tremor in her hands before she clasps them together, but her voice carries clearly across the field.
"I don't know what this is yet," she says. "I don't know what any of this means. But if you're here because you need help... I'll try."
The honesty in her words hits me in the chest. Raw. Real. Everything they'll choose not to hear.
The crowd doesn't applaud. Instead, there's a moment of absolute silence. Then whispers. Reverent nods. The soft sound of more people dropping to their knees.
But as I scan the crowd again, looking for other threats, other presumptions, I catch something that makes me pause.
One face in the back. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair. While everyone else watches us—cataloguing, measuring, wanting—his attention is fixed entirely on Bree. And the expression on his face...
Relief. Raw and genuine, like he's been holding his breath for days and can finally exhale.
It's the only honest emotion in the entire crowd.
"We knew you'd come," a voice calls out—a woman somewhere in the middle of the crowd. "The Ether called us to you."
And that's when someone steps forward.
Not violently. Not threateningly. Just... presumptively. Like proximity to her is a right they've earned by showing up. They reach out—not quite touching, but close enough that intent is clear.
I move.
One deliberate step forward. Hands loose, posture calm, but my presence cuts through the space between them like a blade. I don't need fire. My body is the warning.
You don't touch what isn't yours.
The person stops. Steps back. Gets the message.
But as I scan the crowd again, looking for other threats, other presumptions, I catch something that makes my blood go cold.
One face. One expression.
Wrong.
Too still while everyone else shifts and murmurs. Too calm while Bree speaks again. And when she mentions trying to help, they smile.
Not relief. Not gratitude.
Anticipation.
That one's not here for sanctuary. That one's here for her.
I note the subtle shift around me—Stellan's attention sharpening on the same face, Gray edging closer to Bree's position, Thane's silver eyes flicking once in acknowledgment. He knows. But he says nothing.
The moment stretches, then breaks as Bree finishes speaking and starts to turn back toward the sanctuary. The crowd begins to move—not leaving, but settling. Finding places to linger. Making themselves comfortable.
Making themselves at home.
But it's not just the one wrong face I'm watching now. It's the others—the ones approaching Wes with shy smiles, the woman who brushes Theo's hand as she passes, the group that follows Jace's movement like he's their new favorite show.
I recognize it for what it is. Not connection. Just access.
They want the ones she stood beside. They think touching them means touching her.
