Outside, the sky brightens by degrees, the valley walls catching the first hints of light and throwing them back at one another. The stone looks almost gentle like this. Forgiving.
It never is.
I rise and step out into the morning, wrapping my cloak tighter as the chill tries one last time to convince me this place can be kind. The children’s teaching area lies quiet and empty—mats stacked, slates tucked away, yesterday’s lessons erased by the simple act of leaving.
I pause at the edge of it, staring at what feels too fragile to abandon.
This space was never meant to last. We all knew that. Even when we pretended otherwise—when we laid out lessons and routines like mortar between stones, hoping structure alone could become shelter.
The children are still with their parents, where they should be. Curled close, breathing shared, hands tangled in fabric and scales and wings. That knowledge settles something tight in my chest even as it sharpens the ache underneath it.
Today, that changes.
Behind me, the camp begins to stir. Soft voices carry on the air, careful and hushed, as if everyone has agreed—without speaking—that today deserves reverence. Packs are shifted. Straps adjusted. Someone coughs and immediately smothers the sound.
I move through it all, nodding where I’m seen, offering murmured reassurance where it’s needed. My hands know what to do even if my heart doesn’t. Count supplies. Check water. Make sure shade cloth is folded properly and emergency markers are within reach.
Function is a comfort.
It lets me pretend this is just another day. Another lesson plan. Another moment where I guide them forward and trust that the ground beneath us will hold. But this isn’t a classroom. And today, one of my children will walk away from the people who allowed her to sleep without fear.
I spot Jolie first.
She stands near Rverre’s pack, hands hovering as if she can’t quite bring herself to touch it. Her posture is too straight, her expression held together by will alone.
Calista kneels beside another pack—larger, heavier—and for a moment my mind refuses to make sense of what I’m seeing.
“That’s… big,” I say, frowning. “Did you add extra water to Rverre’s?—”
Calista looks up. Her face shifts the moment she meets my eyes. I don’t see guilt or fear. No, there is only resolve in hers.
“This isn’t Rverre’s,” she says quietly.
Something cold slides into my stomach. I follow her gaze.
Illadon stands a few paces away. A half-size lochaber resting easy at his side, point angled down in practiced control. He looks calm and ready. Far too ready.
“No,” I say.
The word comes out sharper than I intend, cutting across the morning hum. A few heads turn. Jolie stiffens beside Rverre.
“No,” I repeat, louder now. “What is he doing?”
Illadon meets my gaze without hesitation.
“I’m coming,” he says, straightening, his chest filling and his wings snapping partially open. My chest tightens.
“You are absolutely not.”
Jolie turns, eyes flashing. “Talia?—”
“This was not discussed,” I snap, the weight of it hitting me all at once. “This is not part of the plan.”
“It is now,” Illadon says evenly.
I look at Calista, searching her face. “You agreed to this?”
Her jaw tightens. “I’m not stopping him.”
