Al-Rahad Daytime hours earlier...

  The wind changed again.

  It wasn’t a new gust, nor a storm.

  It was the same air from that night at the front—the same emptiness that had split us open when the bomb fell.

  I recognized it before hearing it.

  It wasn’t sound, nor vibration.

  It was that impossible absence that slid beneath the skin and made the blood forget its rhythm.

  Velka froze, her fingers still glowing faintly with healing light.

  —No… —she muttered, trembling—. Not again.

  Caelia turned, her face pale, as if something beneath the sand were watching her.

  —It’s the same. The same frequency. The same pressure.

  Neyra clenched her jaw.

  —It can’t be. Eiswacht’s bombs don’t repeat.

  —It wasn’t Eiswacht. —Zayrah’s voice was barely a breath—. I swear by the desert… this doesn’t come from men.

  We stood in silence.

  The horizon still burned with fires, but that wasn’t the heat we felt.

  This was deeper. More… alive.

  I closed my eyes.

  The vibration ran through my chest, up my throat, forcing me to hold my breath.

  It didn’t hurt, but it did.

  It was the same feeling—and yet, different.

  The first time, it had been a scream.

  This time… it was a word.

  —Do you hear it? —I whispered.

  No one answered, but we all knew: something beneath our feet was awake, and it had looked at us again.

  Velka crossed her arms, trying to joke without strength.

  —If this is normal here, I’m requesting a transfer to any other desert.

  Neyra didn’t smile.

  Caelia, instead, looked up at the sky, as if expecting it to crack open.

  —It’s not normal, —she said quietly—. It’s a warning.

  And in that moment, for the first time, I realized that even the Guardians were afraid.

  We had returned only hours ago, yet the air already felt different—thicker, aware.

  Sultan Azhara Qamar al-Sel?n awaited us in the central hall.

  She stood beside the open curtains, the midday light cutting her silhouette in gold. Her golden bracelets gleamed, but her gaze—dark and deep—seemed dimmer than ever.

  We bowed, exhausted.

  She studied each of us in turn, saying nothing at first.

  Only when the silence grew unbearable did her voice slice through the air, soft enough to ache.

  —You have done what had to be done. Al-Rahad is in your debt.

  Caelia stepped forward, her shield still strapped to her back.

  —Your Grace, with all respect… what happened out there wasn’t just an offensive from Eiswacht. The land… responded.

  Zayrah lifted her eyes toward her sovereign.

  —The sand moved, Majesty. We felt something… something that doesn’t belong to this time. —A pause, heavy— Did you feel it as well?

  The air stopped.

  For a heartbeat, I thought Azhara would admit it—that she would say it with the calm of someone who already knows.

  But no.

  She smiled.

  A perfect, unmoving smile—the kind a ruler wears when a lie is kinder than the truth.

  —The desert sings at times,—she said. And you—foreigners or not—are learning to listen.

  Her words floated like a curtain between us, thin but impenetrable.

  Velka exhaled sharply. Neyra pressed her lips together.

  Caelia lowered her head in forced reverence.

  Only I kept watching the Sultan.

  And I saw it.

  Just a faint tremor in her left hand—a tiny, involuntary twitch—but enough.

  She had felt it.

  And it frightened her.

  Azhara turned to the Guardians.

  —Rest,—she said, her voice regaining its serene authority. Al-Rahad will heal soon. The rest… belongs to silence.

  We bowed once more.

  But as we left the hall, her voice followed us:

  —And if the desert speaks to you again… do not answer.

  The sun hadn’t fully set when we left the palace.

  The marble under our boots still burned from the heat, and the air smelled of half-extinguished incense.

  No one spoke at first. Only our footsteps filled the silence the Sultan had left behind.

  —She lied,—Neyra muttered, not looking at anyone.

  —Of course she did,—Velka replied, folding her arms.—If Seravenn taught me anything, it’s that rulers lie even in their sleep.

  Caelia gave her a weary look.

  —Azhara didn’t lie. She simply chose which truth we could bear.

  No one argued.

  We just kept walking. But the air had changed.

  Sel?nrah’s streets—usually alive with colors and laughter—were almost empty now.

  The emotional-flame lanterns flickered with a colder hue, bluish, as if something had drained their warmth.

  A gust of wind swept through the avenue… and I could swear it whispered.

  Not like air. Like words.

  Zayrah stopped, eyes narrowing toward the canals.

  —Don’t go near the water,—she warned.

  We looked anyway.

  The crystal-clear channels that ran through the city—the same water the people never drank from directly, out of reverence—now flowed slower, heavier.

  It almost… breathed.

  Velka frowned.

  —Since when does water breathe?

  —Since something started living inside it,—Zayrah answered, voice dry and low.

  We moved on. In the main market, stalls were closed and only a few vendors whispered among themselves.

  “A woman in black…”

  “…spoke with the water-priests, but her shadow moved the wrong way…”

  “…she had no eyes—only air where eyes should be…”

  We heard it again and again. The woman in black.

  The one from the desert.

  —Superstition,—Mahtani said quietly, though her gaze wavered for a heartbeat too long.

  In the narrow street that led to the old crafts district, Neyra froze.

  —Lyss… look at this.

  The walls were covered in symbols—black, pulsating.

  They looked freshly painted, yet gave off no smell.

  And they moved. Slowly, like breathing skin.

  Zayrah stepped forward.

  —Don’t touch it— Mahtani warned, but too late.

  Zayrah’s fingers brushed one mark, and black veins spread up her arm like roots crawling under the skin.

  She gasped, clenched her fist… and the stain vanished.

  —What was that?—Velka asked, her voice low.

  Zayrah didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, her tone was almost reverent:

  —A warning.

  The air turned colder.

  The lanterns flickered once more.

  Then we all heard it—faint, distant—like the desert itself whispering in a tongue that had no mercy for those who listened.

  Caelia turned to us, her face grave.

  —We’re leaving.

  —And if it speaks again?—Neyra whispered.

  Caelia’s reply came sharp and calm:

  —Then remember what the Sultan said. Don’t answer.

  But as we walked away, I knew—without needing proof—that it was already too late.

  The desert wasn’t asking questions.

  It was listening.

  Days in Al-Rahad began to slip through my fingers like grains of sand—slow, warm, impossible to hold.

  Each dawn brought a new rhythm.

  Laughter with Neyra as we mapped patrol routes no one would ever follow; arguments between Velka and Zayrah about who handled the heat better—Velka always lost, but never surrendered; and Mahtani’s quiet wisdom, which spoke more through silence than words.

  Caelia had earned their respect—not through rank or power, but through the way she looked at the desert, as if it were her equal.

  Neyra, meanwhile, devoured the landscape with her eyes, hungry to remember everything: the color of the marble, the rhythm of the wind, the cracks in the stone that whispered stories no one else could hear.

  Velka… began to change.

  Her jokes remained, sharp as ever, but between one laugh and the next there were pauses that hadn’t been there before.

  Sometimes I caught her staring at her own shadow, frowning, as if she heard something just beyond sound. Neyra noticed too. She said nothing—but each night, she made sure to sleep closer.

  Training with the Guardians became part of our routine.

  We learned how they read the desert, how they listened to it like a heartbeat beneath their feet.

  We—daughters of a kingdom of marble and metal—were learning to breathe the sacred dust of a land alive with its own pulse.

  Yet something in the air had changed.

  A vibration—low, constant—like a single deep note trembling beneath the city.

  The canals flowed slower now; the animals avoided certain plazas; and the flame-lanterns flickered even when there was no wind.

  Mahtani called it “a magical adjustment.”

  Zayrah called it “residual energy from the front.”

  But Neyra, blunt as always, said what the rest of us feared to name:

  —This isn’t an echo. It’s someone listening.

  I felt it too.

  Every night, as I closed my eyes, a whisper slid through me—not Nerys’s, not the one from the battlefield.

  Another.

  Colder. Older.

  Sometimes, at the edge of sleep, I thought I saw a figure moving among the dunes, where the moon should not reflect.

  But when I opened my eyes, there was only silence.

  And so the weeks passed.

  Until the day that silence… answered back.

  The sun rose golden over Sel?nrah, spilling across our training shirts and the bandages we tightened amid half-hearted jokes.

  The heat wasn’t just from the desert. There was something different in the light—too white, too alive, a shimmer that seemed to hum beneath our skin.

  Today we wouldn’t be facing all the Guardians, only four of them: Zayrah, Mahtani, Irsah… and Luma, the newest among them.

  Mahtani had summoned her to “level the field.”

  Zayrah, with a tone sharper than the morning air, simply said:

  —A fire without pause.

  Luma arrived last. Her steps stirred the sand in rhythmic spirals; her loose braid caught the sunlight like a thread of flame. She smiled, but her eyes stayed fixed on us—evaluating, weighing, as if she already knew how we would fail.

  Velka sharpened her grin in the reflection of a metal plate, though I could see her fingers tremble.

  Neyra tempered her hands like blades, eager to prove that her obsession could rival the fierce calm of these lands.

  Caelia adjusted every strap, every seam on her bracers, inspecting them like the edge of a shield she would never let fall.

  And I… I breathed deeply.

  The scar on my abdomen pulsed like a drumbeat—a reminder of everything I was, and everything I still needed to accept.

  When Zayrah gave the signal, the sand shifted beneath our feet.

  It wasn’t the wind. It was a pulse—brief, almost imperceptible.

  Mahtani’s voice broke the silence, steady and resonant even above the whispering dunes.

  —Today, we train. Not to prove your strength… but your balance.

  Her gaze lingered on me.

  —In Al-Rahad, those who cannot listen to the desert are swallowed by it.

  As the Guardians spread into position, I felt something deeper than the heat.

  A hum, low and buried under the sand.

  As if the entire city… were holding its breath.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  —Before we begin, —Mahtani said, her voice so steady that even the wind seemed to hold its breath— I want to introduce someone who will join us for today only.

  Beside her stood Luma Sa’id, arms crossed, brow furrowed as if she were judging all of Seravenn with a single glance.

  Her skin, copper-gold beneath the sun, seemed to absorb the very heat that burned my back.

  Her hair was short, tightly curled, the tips dyed a deep red like living embers. A small scar traced her left cheek; it didn’t soften her. It made her real—dangerously so.

  Mahtani placed a hand on her shoulder—an unusual gesture for someone so rigid—and spoke with a respect that struck like the edge of a spear.

  —This is Luma Sa’id, Vanguard of the Second Circle. She is fire when she must burn, stone when she must endure. Today, we’ll see whether you truly learn from the desert… or merely imitate its form.

  At my side, Velka let out a low whistle that vanished into her lazy grin.

  Neyra didn’t blink, devouring every detail of Luma as if already rehearsing how to mirror her.

  Caelia, ever composed, loosened her shoulders just a fraction—a gesture so subtle only I could read it for what it was: acceptance of the challenge.

  Luma’s gaze swept across us, deliberate and unhurried.

  When her amber eyes met mine, I caught a spark—barely a heartbeat long—that said: you’ll be trouble.

  I crossed my arms, meeting her stare head-on.

  If she wanted heat, she’d find plenty.

  Mahtani stepped forward, the butt of her spear sinking into the sand with a deep, resonant thud.

  The sound felt like the desert itself replying.

  —Good, —she said, her tone carved from stone— today, you don’t choose your opponents. The sand will be both judge and witness.

  Zayrah unrolled a small parchment filled with scrawled names. Her voice was gentle, but her tone allowed no protest.

  —Neyra Solvine—you’ll open against Irsah Qalam.

  Neyra’s nod was sharp, her eyes alight with that dangerous calm she called focus.

  —Caelia Vorn, —Zayrah continued— you’ll face me.

  Caelia drew in a breath, her chin lifting with the unshakable grace that made her immovable even under fire.

  —Velka Aurel, —Mahtani’s voice turned into a blade— you’re with me.

  A faint tremor crossed Velka’s grin, just enough for me to notice.

  —And finally, —Zayrah added, the faintest ghost of a smile touching her lips— Lyssandra Velcrux… you’ll face Luma Sa’id.

  My chest ignited.

  Luma took a single step forward, the haft of her spear gleaming faintly—its fractured light already alive in her eyes.

  —When you’re ready, —Mahtani said, —the sand will decide whether you are worthy to fight beside us… or beneath us.

  Silence followed.

  Only the faint tremor of the dunes remained—swirling softly, as though waiting for the first strike.

  —Listen closely, —Mahtani said, her voice slicing through the murmuring tension like a blade.

  —In these duels, you may use your magic as you would in real combat. But— her gaze hardened, sweeping across each of us one by one —you will not transform. Today we measure control, not final form.

  For a heartbeat, even the wind seemed to stop. The desert itself held its breath.

  Velka let out a whistle meant to break the tension, but it cracked halfway through. I glanced at her; her smile was a poorly closed door, trembling in its hinges.

  Neyra, in contrast, had sharpened her stare. It wasn’t anger—it was calculation.

  She studied Irsah like a hawk charting the flight of its prey.

  Irsah nodded in return, slow and solemn. Of all the Guardians, she was sadness made flesh—a reflective calm that seeped into the bones of anyone near her.

  Mahtani raised her arm, the sunlight glinting off the edge of her bracer.

  The sound of the desert fell away, swallowed by expectation.

  —Irsah Qalam! —she called, her voice ringing like a bronze bell— Neyra Solvine! Step into the arena!

  My scar tingled, as if awakening with them. I crossed my arms, feeling the pulse beneath my skin. Soon, it would be my turn.

  Neyra moved first—steady steps, her segmented staff firm in hand.

  Irsah followed, just as calm, the folds of her pale tunic stirring in the wind.

  The air between them bent slightly, trembling with a tension that wasn’t just magic… it was fate.

  Neyra was the first to move. She always was.

  A quick strike of her staff, aimed at Irsah’s right flank. Irsah didn’t block—she simply tilted her body, letting the blow brush past her veil. Neyra smiled, knowing that was just courtesy.

  Then Irsah raised both palms, and a wave of palpable sadness filled the air.

  Her magic was a field of aching serenity, a tide that tried to cool the fever of obsession burning inside my friend.

  The sand quivered between them—a muffled vibration, as if the desert itself held its breath.

  Neyra tensed, a muscle shifting invisibly along her back.

  —Don’t try to pacify me, —she growled, spinning her staff. With a sharp click, one segment unlocked; a short chain lashed outward, forcing Irsah to step back.

  For a heartbeat, the arena shimmered—melancholy against a living copy.

  Irsah redirected the force with an open palm, her control impeccable. But Neyra refused to break rhythm.

  Each strike grew sharper, each block more brutal, and Irsah’s sorrow expanded to cushion the assault. Yet Neyra’s obsession only fed on that resistance, hungry for the pressure.

  One blow. Two. A reversed lock that Irsah almost turned into a throw… but Neyra adapted.

  I caught the glint in her eyes: she wasn’t matching Irsah—she was surpassing her.

  The final clash was clean: staff against palm, melancholy against hunger for control.

  Neyra pivoted on her heel and laid the staff gently across Irsah’s collarbone.

  A whisper of wind. Silence.

  —Well done, —Irsah said, surrendering with a calm nod. There was no defeat in her tone—only an old, weary understanding.

  The arena didn’t applaud, but I felt it in every held breath.

  Neyra looked at me, and I smiled back. There was no arrogance in her, only certainty: she was changing.

  Zayrah raised her hand, her shadow stretching long across the sand.

  —First victory, —she declared— Zayrah el-Namir… Caelia Vorn.

  The air tightened again.

  Velka murmured beside me,

  —Bet you a jar of tea Caelia tears her tunic.

  Her voice cracked a little. I didn’t look at her. Not now.

  Zayrah and Caelia stepped forward.

  The dust hadn’t yet settled, and already the desert demanded another fight.

  Caelia didn’t move first. That was her signature—waiting for the smallest mistake.

  Zayrah did. A clean advance, direct, like lightning without thunder. She swung her training knife toward Caelia’s side. My friend turned on her right foot, dodging the wooden edge and blocking with her forearm. A dry crack—bone against wood.

  No drama. Only pure technique.

  I saw Zayrah bite the corner of her lip—she was enjoying this quiet game.

  Caelia countered. Two quick steps, a feint at the throat that Zayrah deflected with an open hand. To anyone else it might have seemed simple—but I knew Caelia. Her magic pulsed beneath her skin like an invisible shield, reinforcing every block.

  The air turned into a mirror between them: still, expectant, until the first step shattered it.

  Zayrah exhaled sharply, channeling heat through her arm. A reddish halo surrounded her, dust glowing like embers.

  Caelia didn’t back away. She opened her shield field and redirected the heat, turning it into a controlled rebound. A new trick—without a doubt.

  —She didn’t do that before… I whispered, mostly to myself, more than to Velka.

  Zayrah growled, fascinated. She advanced with a tight spin. Caelia, solid as a wall, waited for the perfect instant… and then both struck at once: knife and invisible shield collided. Trust against distrust.

  A sharp crack. Rings of dust. Both were thrown back, rolling over the warm sand.

  Silence.

  They were breathing hard, but smiling. Zayrah was the first to stand, offering her hand.

  —A fair draw, —she declared. And not even Mahtani dared contradict her.

  Velka let out a genuine laugh. Neyra clapped once, palm against thigh.

  And I… I felt my chest swell with pride.

  My sister, my shield, had just reminded the desert that even distrust—tempered well enough—can be unbreakable.

  Zayrah raised her voice:

  —Next! Mahtani Rha’a … Velka Aurel.

  I turned toward Velka. For an instant, her smile held.

  But her eyes… her eyes were a sea beginning to stir.

  She spun her practice sword—the replica of her broken blade—and flashed me a grin so radiant that, for a heartbeat, I almost believed she was fine.

  Almost.

  Mahtani watched her a few paces away —like a mother hawk, posture flawless, the ceremonial staff resting on her shoulder. Nothing about her was improvised.

  —Velka Aurel, —Zayrah announced, raising her hand— Mahtani al-Rahad. To the arena.

  Velka stepped forward, spinning on her heels with her usual flair. She raised her practice sword and grinned.

  —Ready to lose your reputation in front of your sisters, guardian?

  Mahtani didn’t reply. She only bowed her head slightly, her serenity untouched—though in her eyes, I caught a flicker of something that looked almost like worry.

  The duel began with a sharp crack: staff against sword.

  Velka struck first—fast, electric—feints unpredictable, steps like a dance. For an instant, she was herself at her finest: all brilliance, humor, and fury disguised as grace.

  —Go on, Velka! —Neyra shouted between claps.

  Mahtani kept her calm. She blocked, turned, countered—never harshly, as if afraid to break something more fragile than bone.

  Velka laughed, but her laughter came out hollow. Her breathing faltered; her blade trembled.

  A slip. Sand shifting underfoot.

  The staff hit her wrist—wood against bone, sharp and final.

  Velka forced out a laugh.

  —Nice one! You almost made me drop it!

  But her voice wavered.

  Mahtani measured her again. Gave her space. Gave her a chance to stop.

  Velka didn’t take it.

  With a roar—pride, anger, fear tangled together—she charged again. The sword flashed, the air hissed… and Mahtani, with a single turn of her wrist, drove the staff into her chest.

  The impact threw her backward. Sand rose like smoke.

  Silence.

  Velka lay there, staring at her free hand as if she’d lost something she couldn’t name.

  Mahtani took a deep breath and stepped back.

  —Match concluded, —she said—no triumph, no humiliation.

  Velka laughed again. A broken sound.

  —I lost… —she whispered.

  Neyra and Caelia exchanged a glance. No one spoke.

  Mahtani offered her hand. Velka hesitated… then took it.

  When she stood, brushing the sand from her neck, she threw me a crooked smile.

  —Well, someone had to look bad so you could shine later, right, Lyss?

  Her voice was Venom and Gunpowder.

  And her laughter... wasn’t laughter anymore.

  Something cracked inside me.

  It wasn’t her defeat—it was the way her smile fractured and stitched itself back together with false thread.

  Her sword hung low, heavy, as if hope itself weighed her arm down.

  I wanted to reach her. To tell her it didn’t matter.

  But Zayrah was already calling my name.

  In front of me, Luma Sa’id struck her chest with her fist, the heat around her rippling like a war drum.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Velka sit beside Neyra, her knee trembling. She avoided my gaze.

  I wanted to touch her.

  But I had to remember who I was.

  The leader.

  The next to fall—or to rise.

  —Lyssandra Velcrux, Luma Sa’id, —Zayrah’s voice rang out, steady as living stone.

  —To the arena, —Mahtani added, her eyes locking with mine—maybe a warning that Luma was more than just muscle.

  We stood face to face. Unarmed for a heartbeat, measuring each other’s breath.

  I could feel it—the restrained frustration, the spark running beneath her skin. She burned not just to prove her strength, but to test mine.

  —Don’t lose your head, Sa’id, —Mahtani murmured behind her, barely audible.

  Too late. I saw it in Luma’s eyes: her emotion wasn’t staying inside.

  When Zayrah’s whistle sliced through the air, Luma didn’t hesitate for a single breath.

  At first, it was simple—blows without magic. My fists and kicks, her training spear flashing between sparks of heat. She was fast, unnervingly fast, and I moved like a shadow over the sand, barely keeping a step ahead.

  Then came the roar. That deep vibration that warned of the overflow.

  Her energy wrapped around her like molten skin.

  —Luma, stop! —Mahtani shouted— No transformation!

  But Luma wasn’t listening anymore.

  A pulse of heat distorted the air, and her true weapon—the fractured spear of light—materialized in her hands, glowing like a crack in the earth.

  I had no choice.

  My fingers brushed my abdomen. The scar burned, mocking me with its memory.

  The power answered.

  The blade of Blood Crown emerged in my grasp, red darkness flaring to meet the desert sun.

  Fire and shadow collided.

  Luma lunged, and for a moment our eyes locked—her fury meeting mine, raw and naked.

  We charged. I didn’t think, I felt: my arm, my rage, my breath slashing through the heat.

  Each clash of steel and light sent sparks scattering across the sand, alive like our own heartbeats.

  I heard the distant cries of Mahtani and Zayrah—ordering her to stop, warning that one more strike would draw real blood.

  Neither of us listened.

  A streak of light grazed my cheek. Blood hit the sand.

  I answered with a wave of crimson energy that tore through her guard—a clean cut, judgment given without witnesses.

  Luma faltered. Her spear trembled. I stepped forward—my blade stopping a whisper from her throat.

  For a moment, my anger held her life in its palm… and let it go.

  I exhaled the centuries I’d been holding in my chest.

  Lowered my sword.

  We looked at each other—breathless, bloodied, alive.

  And I knew: I’d won.

  But it wasn’t triumph. It was reminder.

  In this desert, we were no goddesses.

  We still bled the same.

  Luma stepped back, chest heaving, the corner of her lip split. She gave me a half-smile—half growl, half respect.

  Zayrah sighed, hands on her hips.

  —Luma Sa’id… do you always have to turn everything into an explosion?

  Mahtani rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.

  —It was supposed to be a test of discipline, not an excavation of the desert.

  Irsah, her calm cracked only by a faint frown, shook her head slowly.

  —Your spirit is fire, Luma… but sometimes, you burn even your own shadow.

  Luma shrugged, wiping the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.

  —And yet, I lost, —she said, and somehow it sounded like a vow.

  I let out a rough laugh that made my ribs protest.

  Velka ran up beside me, breathless—her face a strange mix of fear and pride.

  And for a brief moment, I smiled back.

  —What are you even made of, my queen? —Velka blurted, not waiting for permission.

  Her warm hands pressed against my arms and back, and the faint shimmer of healing magic flowed into me. I felt the pain dim, bruises cooling under her touch—yet she gritted her teeth, as if every wound she closed in me hurt her twice as much.

  —All bruised, all cracked... and look at you! You’re laughing like nothing happened.*

  Caelia stepped in behind her, stern as ever, though a flicker of relief softened her eyes.

  Her hand settled on my shoulder—steady, grounding.

  —Don’t ever fight like that without warning us again, —she murmured, the tone of an older sister disguised as command.

  Neyra, still with sand tangled in her hair from her own duel, tossed me a rolled-up towel.

  —Wipe your face, monster. —She managed a faint smile.— You won, sure… but you’re banned from breaking yourself for at least a month.

  I wiped away the blood, the taste of iron heavy on my tongue.

  I felt the pain. The anger. The pride.

  And as always, I knew—though the weight was mine to bear, I would never carry it alone.

  Zayrah raised her voice for all of us:

  —You’ve shown what you can do. What you are.

  Her gaze passed over each of us, measuring, steady—like a judge deciding which trees would survive the coming storm.

  —Now rest. And heal. Tomorrow… the desert will show no mercy.

  I watched Luma leave, her fractured spear still humming with heat against her back.

  I took a deep breath, my ribs aching, the sting of sand in every cut.

  And there, between the pain and the silence, I felt it—

  this place, this land, was already claiming me as its own.

  I just didn’t know if that was a welcome...

  or a warning.