Dawn came reluctantly, as if the sun itself was uncertain about rising over a Lodge under siege.
Marra stood at the kitchen window, watching grey light seep into the forest, and tried not to think about the scratching sounds that had persisted through most of the night. The creatures—whatever they were—had tested every door, every window, every possible entrance to the Lodge with methodical patience.
And then, sometime around the deepest part of night, they’d simply... stopped.
The silence that followed was somehow worse.
Behind her, the kitchen was a disaster of organized chaos. She’d been making breakfast for the stranded travelers—seven of them, caught at the Lodge when the creatures appeared—plus the usual crew. Feeding people kept her hands busy. Kept her mind from spiraling into the thousand questions she didn’t have answers for.
Kept her from thinking about the bow.
“You’ve been up all night.”
Marra didn’t turn. She recognized Harl’s gravelly voice, could hear the concern beneath the gruffness.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Seemed more useful to bake bread.”
“Aye, well. Fear makes for good kneading.” Harl moved to stand beside her, both of them staring out at the forest. “They’re gone. For now.”
“For now,” Marra echoed. “Why did they leave?”
“The Lodge wards held. They realized they couldn’t get in, so they retreated.” Harl’s hand moved unconsciously to his rune-burn scar. “But they’ll be back. Things like that don’t give up easy.”
Marra’s fingers tightened on the windowsill. “Harl. Last night. In the forest. I saw—”
She stopped. How did you explain visions? How did you put into words the bone-deep certainty that you were connected to something ancient and terrible and sacred all at once?
“The bow,” Harl said quietly.
Marra’s breath caught. “How did you—”
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