Chapter 92. The Ash Between Roots

The snow was falling heavy that night, a curtain of pale silence. It did not drift or dance like in gentler seasons. It plunged straight down, thick flakes crowding the air until every breath tasted faintly of ice. The world seemed muffled, wrapped in a shroud that made footsteps vanish too quickly, as though the earth itself did not want to remember who had crossed it.

Aria walked at the front. Her hand was bare despite the cold, fingers stretched slightly apart, not to summon flame but to test the air. She had learned to feel the weight of silence, the invisible tremor where resonance either lingered or recoiled. Tonight that silence was not empty—it was taut, like a string pulled past breaking.

Behind her trudged Jules, shoulders hunched, scarf pulled up over his mouth. He muttered something about frostbite, but the words were carried away before they reached anyone. Cassandra followed more quietly, her eyes scanning the trees. Every so often she tilted her head as if