They sat together on the settee, the silence between them comfortable but weighted with unspoken questions. Celeste's fingers traced absent patterns on Reign's palm, and he watched her with that steady, patient gaze that had first drawn her to him—the way he could be still when the whole world demanded motion."Tell me about the land," he said finally. "When you touch it, what do you feel?"Celeste looked up, surprised. In all the chaos of the Obsidian Ridge and Black River conflicts, no one had ever asked her that. They'd asked about her father's death, about Sienna's whereabouts, about battle strategies and alliances. But not about this—the thing that made her her."Everything," she whispered. "I feel... everything. The roots of the oldest trees, and how they communicate through underground fungal networks. The water table is shifting three hundred feet below us. The way the earth remembers—every footstep, every drop of blood, every oath sworn on its surface." She paused, her voice
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