Chapter 97: The Grammar of Loss
The journey into the high north was a passage through diminishing returns. The vibrant, demanding life of the coastal spring gave way to the stunted resilience of alpine meadows, then to the stark, mineral silence of the peaks. They crossed the Silver Pass at a point far from Frosthold, guided by Gryffin along a treacherous goat track that left no trace for imperial patrols. The air grew thin and sharp, each breath a conscious effort.
Aurora, cocooned against Kaelen's back, was unnaturally quiet. Her usual stream of babbling commentary on the world had dwindled to occasional, soft murmurs. Her magic, however, was more active than ever not in joyful bursts, but in a constant, low-level scan, like a lighthouse beam sweeping through fog. She was listening hard, with a sense beyond hearing.
"She feels it," Elara murmured, walking beside Kaelen. "The absence. It's like a hunger, and she's trying to feed it."
