The night was deepening. The fog had thinned, as if even it were holding its breath.
The fire crackled softly. Maggie had moved a little away, cleaning her axe with maniacal precision. She wasn't looking at Dylan anymore. At least, not directly.
But she was still listening. She had never really ignored them, truth be told.
Especially now — because from here on out, he was the fracture point.
The one who could tip the scales — for better, or far worse.
Dylan, for his part, had remained seated. Back straight. Breathing slowed. His eyes fixed on his hands.
Like a child.
A child who had just realized he was holding something far too big. Something he hadn't yet learned to use, or even name.
His palms were dust-stained, but free of wounds.
He turned them over, examined them again. Then closed his fists.
Nothing moved.
He felt no vibration, no light, no strange pulse… just a silence that Dylan found had lasted too long.
He could almost have believed he'd dreamed it.
