They left the side yard without speaking further.
The residual sense of the banked fire sat under Atlas's ribs heavier than it had before the man in training gear named it.
Lara walked at his shoulder. Eli kept the blade ready. Clara marked the turns back to the blade-smith's shop and said nothing until the door locked behind them.
Inside, the air held the usual mix of oil, steel, and the faint smoke that never fully left the forge. They moved through the narrow space without lamps.
Enough light came from the street through the high windows to show the workbench, the rack of unfinished blades, and the cot in the back room that had become their only fixed place in the city.
Clothes came off. The circle formed on the narrow bed and the floorboards. Hands and mouths moved with the same thorough certainty, grounding the new knowledge the same way they had grounded every previous weight.
