The pain vanishes. Completely.
Her breathing evens.
Mine follows. The hum lowers. Contained and whole.
Her eyes widen. “That wasn’t in my head.”
“No.”
She swallows. Then pulls her hand away deliberately. The pain returns. Not as sharp, but present.
Her breath hitches. She touches me again. Relief. Immediate. Her gaze locks onto mine. “This isn’t environmental,” she whispers.
“No.”
She exhales shakily. “This is biological.”
The words lands between us like a blade. She suddenly shifts in my arms. Too fast.
Her skin flushes. “I feel?—”
“Hot,” I finish quietly.
She nods. Too much proximity. Too much stabilization. Her system overcorrecting.
“I need air.”
I stand immediately, still holding her, and carry her to the porch.
The night air hits us cool and sharp. The range looms dark against the sky.
She inhales deeply.
The hum shifts. Quieter now. But aware.
Her gaze lifts to the mountains. “You said it doesn’t tolerate measurement,” she says softly.
“Yes.”
“And you said it tolerates force.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me slowly. “This goes back to the Starborn Range, doesn’t it?”
The name feels wrong in her mouth. Too obvious. Too mythic.
“Everything here does,” I answer.
“That’s absurd.”
“Yes.”
She laughs once. Not amused. “Starborn. Haunted ridges. Local folklore. That’s what this is supposed to be?”
“Supposed to be?” I echo.
She turns toward the eastern darkness. “I want to see it.”
