The night was colder than it should have been.
Not the kind of cold that came with autumn—the kind that seeped into your bones, that made the air feel thick and heavy, that whispered of places where the sun never reached. Lucian felt it the moment they left the village behind, the warmth of the parish hall fading like a dream you couldn't quite remember.
Cora walked beside him, her short sword drawn, her eyes scanning the darkness between the trees. She was quiet now, unlike the van ride, unlike the banter with Sera. This was her mission face—focused, sharp, ready.
"You've been quiet," she said.
"So have you."
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
She glanced at him. "About how you always seem to know what's waiting before we find it."
Lucian didn't answer.
