Caelan woke to the sound of wood shifting.
Not the dramatic creak of floorboards—that came later, loud and accusatory—but the quieter, more intimate sound beneath it. The sound of the house settling. Timbers contracting against the cold before dawn, joints flexing like an old man stretching and refusing to admit it hurt.
The Greenwake always did that before first light. As if the land exhaled, and the buildings remembered—begrudgingly—that they were only guests.
Caelan lay very still, eyes closed, practicing the breathing exercise his father had taught him when he was small and storms rattled the shutters.
One breath in.
One breath out.
If he stayed very still, perhaps the day would decide to start without him.
On the third breath—
A knock.
Soft. Knuckle to frame, not door.
Of course.
Rowan Hale never knocked on doors. Doors were for privacy. Doorframes were for family, urgency, and the kind of conversations you didn't escape by pretending to be asleep.
"Cael," Rowan said quietly. "Up."
Caelan opened one eye.
The room was grey. Honest grey. The sort that existed before firelight and morning argued about whose job it was to be cheerful. The small window above his bed fogged at the corners, his breath still clinging to the glass like it hadn't received the memo about waking.
Cold crept up from the stone floor despite the rug his mother had woven years ago. The threads were worn thin where Caelan paced when he couldn't sleep. Which was… often. Entirely unrelated to anything supernatural. Obviously.
"I'm up," Caelan said.
He had not moved.
There was a pause.
The kind that meant his father was listening—not just to Caelan, but to the house, the silence, the air between words.
Then the door opened anyway.
Rowan stepped inside without ceremony, already dressed for the day. Leather boots laced tight. Wool shirt tucked. Belt worn smooth by years of tools and habit. His hair was still damp from a quick wash, darker at the temples, as if the morning had tried and failed to wake him fully.
He carried a lantern in one hand, shuttered low, like he was politely apologizing to the house for being awake.
The light painted careful stripes across the room, catching dust motes drifting lazily, unconcerned with dawn, responsibility, or Caelan's ongoing desire to be unconscious.
"You weren't," Rowan said.
Not an accusation. A fact. Delivered the way one might note that the kettle was empty or the fence post had finally given up.
Caelan sighed and pushed himself upright, blankets sliding to his waist. He scratched his forearm where the cold always settled first.
"It's early."
"It's late," Rowan replied, setting the lantern on the small table by the wall.
The table wobbled.
Rowan nudged one leg with his boot until it settled, as he had done every morning since Caelan was ten and had once suggested they fix it properly.
Rowan glanced at the window. "Fog rolled in overnight. Birds went quiet an hour ago."
That made Caelan sit straighter.
Rowan did not elaborate. He never did. Explanations were for people who needed convincing. Estate hunters learned early that the land spoke in patterns, not reassurance.
Caelan rubbed his eyes. Fog didn't stop birds. Not properly. Not like that.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet met cold stone and he winced, toes curling in reflex.
"You want me in the south field?" Caelan asked.
Rowan shook his head.
"No."
The word landed heavily in Caelan's chest.
The south field was where he belonged. Fences to mend. Channels to clear. Water that pooled wrong and rotted things if ignored. Work that made sense. Work that didn't stare back at you in silence.
"If not there," Caelan said carefully, "where?"
"Eat first," Rowan said. "Then we'll see."
Caelan frowned but didn't argue. He knew which questions earned answers and which only earned more silence.
Rowan's gaze lingered longer than usual—not checking strength or readiness, but studying Caelan the way you checked a tool you'd used a thousand times and suddenly weren't sure it would behave.
His eyes flicked—just once—to Caelan's hands.
Then away.
"You sleep?" Rowan asked.
"Enough," Caelan said.
Rowan made a sound that meant nothing and everything.
He adjusted the lantern shutter, letting more light spill into the room. The beam caught the small wooden charm hanging beside Caelan's bed—rootwood, simple, unmarked beyond its grain. Rowan had made it when Caelan was eight, after a winter when the ground refused to thaw and the crops came up thin.
Rowan steadied it with two fingers until it stopped swaying.
"Get dressed," he said. "Warm clothes. Bring the spare shirt."
"We're not going out, are we?" Caelan asked, immediately regretting the question.
Rowan hesitated.
Brief. Barely there. But Caelan saw it.
"No," Rowan said. "Not yet."
Caelan nodded.
As he pulled on his shirt, he felt it again. That strange sensation beneath his skin. Not pain. Not warmth.
Pressure.
Like standing too close to a deep well and being uncomfortably aware of how much space existed beneath your feet.
You didn't sleep enough, he told himself. That was all.
Rowan turned to leave, then paused with his hand on the frame. He looked older like that—caught between staying and going, lines at his eyes deeper in the lantern light.
"If anything slows you today," Rowan said evenly, "say so. No sense forcing bad work."
"I will."
Rowan nodded once and stepped out, closing the door behind him.
The latch clicked softly.
Caelan sat there a moment longer, boots on but untied, listening to the house breathe.
Outside, the fog pressed close to the walls, patient and heavy.
Waiting.
---
Caelan dressed slowly.
Not because the clothes were difficult—he'd worn the same wool shirt and patched trousers nearly every morning since he was fifteen—but because standing felt… wrong.
Not wrong enough to stop him.
Just wrong enough to notice.
The air felt thicker. As if it had decided to have opinions.
He tied his boots carefully, double-knotted out of habit. His hands moved without thought. He'd tied these laces in the dark more times than he could count.
When he stood, he rolled his shoulders, easing a stiffness that hadn't existed yesterday.
The pressure remained.
It didn't pulse. Didn't ache. It simply was.
Caelan ignored it. He was very good at ignoring things.
He brushed the charm by his bed once—just a habit—and lingered a heartbeat longer than usual before turning away.
The corridor creaked at the third step. The wall bowed near the pantry door. The house smelled of damp wool, old wood, and yesterday's bread.
Home.
Rowan was already in the kitchen, setting out breakfast with the efficiency of someone who had surrendered long ago to routine. Thick bread. Sticky honey crock. Porridge steaming gently in a bowl chipped enough to be familiar.
"You're slow today," Rowan said without looking up.
"You woke me early."
"And you still took your time," Rowan replied, pushing the bowl across the table. "Means you're not rushing blind."
"Or that I'm tired."
Rowan made a faint sound that might have been a laugh. Might not.
"Eat."
They did, quietly. Spoon against wood. Fire ticking in the hearth. Rowan watching without appearing to.
Caelan pretended not to notice.
When the bowl was empty, he wiped it clean with bread and stacked it neatly.
Rowan noticed.
"You'll check the back room," Rowan said. "Air out the grain bins."
"They're always fine."
"And you'll still check."
Caelan nodded.
Rowan stirred the embers. The fire hesitated.
Rowan frowned mildly, as one did when a familiar thing failed to behave. He added kindling. The flame caught, slow and stubborn.
"Hm."
Caelan felt it then. A subtle shift. Like a shelf settling under weight.
"You cold?" Rowan asked.
"A little."
"Same work as always," Rowan said, pulling on his coat. "Don't rush."
"I wasn't planning to."
"I know."
The door opened. Fog curled inward, curious.
"Keep the kettle warm," Rowan said. "Back before midday."
"I will."
The door closed.
Caelan stood alone.
The pressure waited.
---
The back room was cool and narrow. Grain sacks lined the wall. Tools hung neatly.
Caelan checked everything. All sound. All dry.
He opened the shutter a finger's width.
The pressure sharpened.
He froze.
It gathered in his chest, insistent but quiet. Like someone waiting behind a door.
Caelan closed the shutter.
The pressure eased.
"…Right," he muttered, rubbing his sternum. "That's normal."
He swept. Oiled hinges. Did normal things.
The house felt tighter.
The door latch was cold. The fog pressed faintly against it.
He didn't open it.
Instead, he leaned his forehead against the doorframe.
The feeling surged.
Not fear.
Pressure.
Like holding a breath too long.
This is wrong, Caelan thought.
Not the house.
Not the fog.
Me.
He opened the window a crack.
Cold air rushed in.
Relief followed.
Outside, the fog curled across the yard. He couldn't see the forest—but he knew exactly where it was.
His chest tightened with longing.
He closed the window.
The pressure returned.
Caelan swore softly.
He paced. Sat. Stood.
Nothing helped.
A faint awareness crept in. Direction without destination.
The woods.
"I'm staying inside," he said aloud.
The pressure did not ease.
It waited.