The clearing stayed silent long after Asarmose finished speaking.
Not argumentative silence.
Not confusion.
Something heavier.
The kind of silence that settled over people when a truth had entered the room and refused to leave.
Cold wind drifted through the frost-covered trees overhead, carrying the distant smell of smoke from the lower campfires. Somewhere below the ridge, metal struck stone in uneven rhythm as refugees reinforced barricades that everyone secretly understood would not survive another full assault.
Nobody moved immediately.
Nobody seemed entirely certain how to.
Alistair stood rigid near the center of the clearing, arms folded tightly across his chest, still feeling the ghost of Oren's nervous system beneath his skin.
Like an echo.
That was the part terrifying him now.
Not the pressure itself.
The memory of connection.
