Lyra stood at the edge of the wooden dock, bare feet curled slightly against the chilled planks. The wool dress brushed her calves when the breeze passed, soft and familiar, not ceremonial. She liked that. She liked not being wrapped in symbols today.

Behind her, Kieran was splitting wood with slow movements. Not because they needed more firewood. They didn’t. But because he liked doing things that ended cleanly. One swing, one crack, one problem divided into two manageable pieces. It kept ...