Beneath the Howling Pines
I pressed my hand against the bare earth, grounding myself, and whispered, “What do you want from me?”
The wind stirred the branches above, but there was no answer.
At least not one I could hear.
Silas found me there sometime after moonrise. He didn’t speak right away. Just sat across from me, quiet, present. The bond hummed gently in the space between us—soft, like the brush of a heartbeat through skin.
“You’re angry,” he said finally.
I looked at him. “Aren’t you?”
“Every second,” he said. “But anger’s a knife. You can use it to cut yourself open, or you can sharpen it.”
Sikat na Kabanata