We were supposed to be safe.
Not here.
Not under this grey sky that smells like gunmetal, wet stone, and old rain.
But here we are.
And the trees are watching.
Tall pines lining the mountain like silent sentries, their needles whispering secrets the wind carries away. Shadows coil at their roots, long and dark, stretching like hands waiting to grab ankles. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. Every inch of this forest feels chosen—like it rehearsed this moment long before we arrived.
Killian said safehouse.
I said fortress.
But neither of us meant this.
The villa sits high above Aurelia City, a white skeleton against the mountainside, glass walls shining faintly in the afternoon light. From up here the skyline looks like a toy—small, fragile, harmless. Birds glide across the air with no idea that my heart is lodged somewhere between my ribs and throat.
