Novelas y relatos de March Graphic

Jace says it’s been quiet, but quiet never lasts long in rogue territory. I like the rhythm of it. Scanning trees for broken branches, sniffing for foreign scents, marking our own posts with quick scratches. It’s simple. Physical. No room for overthinking. Until there is. Jace stops abruptly near a cluster of pines. He crouches, fingers brushing the bark. “Fresh,” he mutters. I move closer. There it is: a deliberate claw mark, three parallel lines, shallow but precise. Not deep enough to scar the tree forever, just enough to say *we were here*.