The morning after the verdict, Marron woke to silence.
Not the comfortable silence of contentment. The heavy silence of grief.
The tools in her pack weren't humming. Weren't pulsing with their usual morning energy. They were just... there. Present but withdrawn, like they were all looking inward at something they'd lost.
Marron sat up slowly and reached for her pack. The moment her hand touched the fabric, she felt it—a wave of sorrow so profound it made her chest ache.
They were mourning.
For centuries, the tools had been semi-sentient—powered by magic from their original creator, driven by purpose and will that predated human memory. They'd spent those centuries following that embedded will, that driving need for completion, reunion, the restoration of what had been broken during the Cataclysm.
And now they had a wielder who'd agreed to never pursue that goal. Who'd chosen limitation over their fundamental desire.
