[Leif's POV—Returning from the ForjnHolm Wilds]
The path back to camp was too quiet.
The wolves padded ahead in single file, crimson fur catching faint threads of moonlight. Zephyy dozed on my shoulder, tail twitching with every step. Alina had fallen asleep against my chest, her tiny fingers still curled in the fabric of my coat.
Everything looked the same. Sounded the same. But it didn't feel the same.
The sword's weight against my waist wasn't heavy—but it pressed. Every step I took, it pulsed faintly, a rhythm that matched the marble under my shirt. Heartbeat against heartbeat, whisper against whisper.
I tried not to look at it. I tried not to remember him.
That man. That face. My face.
The way he looked at me before fading—like I was the echo, not him. Like I was the one borrowed from someone else's story.
My fingers twitched around the hilt at the memory. The sword hummed once, low and living, like it had heard the thought.
