The morning air is heavy, warm but not oppressive, and the sun hasn’t quite climbed past the treetops. I stretch my arms, feeling the tension in my shoulders from yesterday’s training and from everything else that hasn’t been said. As I step outside, the forest seems sharper, almost alive, as if it knows I’m watching and listening. The voice in my head hums faintly, not commanding, not guiding, just present—like it’s keeping time with my heartbeat. Asher is already at the training grounds, standing a little apart from everyone else. His posture is… restrained. Taut, like a drawn bowstring. I can’t tell if it’s irritation or something else, something I’m not supposed to name yet. Our eyes meet briefly. I look away first, because it’s easier to hide what I feel when I can’t hold his gaze. But even from a distance, I feel him. The way he moves, the way he watches, the quiet weight of his presence that has always pressed against me. It makes my chest tighten in ways that have nothin
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