The thought came to Marron in the middle of something ordinary.
She was standing behind the Cart, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, watching steam curl upward from water that hadn't quite reached a boil. Morning traffic moved past in uneven waves—clerks heading toward offices, apprentices jogging late, a pair of guards arguing quietly about whose turn it was to file reports.
Nothing was wrong.
Which was exactly why the thought landed so cleanly.
I could just stop.
It wasn't dramatic. It didn't come with panic or despair. It arrived the way tired truths often did—plain, almost reasonable.
She stared into the mug and tried to imagine what stopping would look like.
Not dying. Not disappearing. Just… stepping sideways. Letting the Council handle its threats. Letting the hunter chase emptier prey. Letting the tools settle into whatever shape they were becoming without her as the fulcrum.
Letting herself go back to food.
