The days that followed the Rift's retreat were hushed, not with fear—but reverence. The Vale glowed softly, bathed in a light that no longer flickered with danger but pulsed with promise. The leyline hum beneath their feet no longer groaned with grief. It thrummed like a lullaby beneath skin.
But peace, Frost had learned, was not an ending.
It was a breath between awakenings.
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The Whispering Season
They called it that—the Whispering Season. Trees leaned in closer when no wind stirred. Stones bore messages carved not by hand, but time. Children born beneath that sky were quiet at first, but when they did speak, it was in echoes not their own. Not frightening—just old. Just familiar.
One such child was Arel.
He was born beneath the old willow where the Root had first opened. His first cry came not in a scream, but a note—a single perfect tone that made the flowers bloom in his mother's braid. When Frost first held him, he blinked up with stormgold eyes.
