Frost cracked over the blackened soil like spider-webs on glass. Dawn bled through the valley fog in thin, exhausted stripes, its watery light stumbling over soot-smeared stone and cinder-clotted grass. A weak sun tried to ignite the horizon—it only made the ash glint like dull iron shavings.
The pulses came again.
Wump.
A slow amber flare pushed up from the fissures, staining the fog the color of old honey. It lasted the space of two heartbeats, then ebbed, leaving the ground to shiver and settle. Forty-seven seconds later it would come again; everyone had counted enough cycles to sense the rhythm without watches.
Draven stood motionless at the ridge lip, arms folded beneath his cloak. Frost crystals clung to the leather straps at his shoulders, but none melted against his skin. His eyes, silver and sharp, tracked the glow as it seeped along the cracks—mapping spread, angle, cadence, like a musician listening for a motif.
