DYERWaiting does not soften with time.

It hardens.

Each hour stretches taut, a restraint held too long, each breath measured so carefully it begins to hurt. My beast does not snarl or rage. It watches. Coiled. Patient. Its attention remains fixed southward, like a compass needle refusing correction.

Aislyn.

Her absence has shape now. It follows me through the den, presses against my ribs during council meetings, lingers in the silence after orders are given. I function. I lead. I decide. No one ...