The village of Thorner slumbered in a hollow between two weathered hills, wrapped in the blue-gray hush of early autumn. Dawn crept in slow and sullen, the sky bruised with thunderclouds, streaks of purple and iron-gray bleeding into the fading stars. The air tasted sharp, tinged with woodsmoke and the promise of rain, and beneath it all, the earth itself seemed to breathe—a living thing, holding secrets in its dark, patient heart. Cael Thorne woke before the first bell, as he always did, tangled in a quilt at the edge of sleep. For a long moment, he lay quietly, tracing the cracks in the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the cottage: the low moan of wind in the eaves, the faint creak of Elara’s footsteps below, the rhythmic snore of Marcus in the next room. A sliver of cold pressed against his bare feet as he swung out of bed, and he shivered, pulling on his rough spun shirt and breeches. He padded down the stairs, careful to avoid the one that squeaked, and found Elara in the kitchen, her back to him. She stood by the hearth, stirring a pot that sent up fragrant steam, her hair pinned in a messy coil, a ring of lavender tucked behind her ear.