The house got quieter after sunset.
Not truly quiet. A place full of wolves never really was. Floorboards creaked. Doors opened and shut. Someone laughed too loudly downstairs and got shushed. Pots clinked in the kitchen. A radio murmured low in another room, then cut off mid-sentence.
But the ridge had settled.
No alarms. No convoys. No tearing sky.
Just the ordinary sounds of people pretending they could rest.
Aria stood in the upstairs bathroom with both hands braced on the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
She looked the same.
That was the strange part.
Same dark hair pulled loose from its tie. Same tired eyes. Same scar near her jaw from years ago, from before gods and systems and cities bending under pressure.
She touched the edge of the sink and waited.
Nothing answered.
No low hum in her bones. No silver pulse under her skin. No vast tide of power pressing against the edges of her thoughts.
Just herself.
The absence should have felt like loss.
