The mist that once shrouded Blackthorn had thinned into morning light.
From the eastern ridge, Shannon and Tristan looked down upon the keep.
The walls still bore the scars of time and neglect—cracked stone, moss-filled gaps, and the faint trace of vines climbing toward the battlements—but sunlight touched every corner now.
Smoke rose from the chimneys, steady and clean. Workers moved across the courtyard like ants rebuilding their nest.
"It's strange," Tristan said softly. "From here, it almost looks new."
Shannon stood beside him, their shoulders brushing each other. "It will be. Give it a season."
They descended the slope together. The air smelled of rain and pine, and the soil beneath their boots was damp, alive. The curse had left its mark, but life was already reclaiming what sorrow had stolen.
