The Domini saga

Three weeks after High Pass, the forest holds them in green mist and bird-soft silence. Kynes tends a small camp beneath black pines, where smoke from a low fire barely climbs before the trees swallow it.

Bren kneels beside a pot, stirring it with slow patience. Her shoulders ease when she sees him watching, and she nudges a spare bowl toward the fire.

A beat of warmth settles between them. The forest beyond their hidden ring stays still, and the little camp feels claimed by habit rather than exile.

Bren lifts the pot from the fire and sets it between them, inviting Kynes to sit closer instead of standing guard over the clearing.

Kynes feels the familiar, jagged tether of his shadow-crows through the forest canopy, confirming they remain anchored to the lattice beyond the trees. A sudden, sharp drop in temperature makes the fire hiss, and the black pines above begin to groan under the weight of an unseasonable, heavy wind.

The camp answers at once. Kynes and Bren pack in practiced silence, while the fire shrinks under the wind’s shove and the pot is lifted clear before it can rattle over.

Kynes rolls the last blanket tight and shoulders his staff. The shadow-crows peel from the canopy and drift ahead, drawing a dark lane through the mist.

Bren snuffs the coals with a quick scoop of ash, then tucks the fire’s iron frame under one arm. The camp’s little glow collapses behind them into smoke.

They move out together, low and measured, leaving the exposed clearing for a darker line between the pines. Ahead, the shadow-crows settle once above a sheltered notch, waiting.

Kynes lifts a hand, and the loose debris answers. Stones scrape inward, logs slide against one another, and dead branches knot into a low wall against the wind.

The shelter rises in pieces, not sturdy, but tight enough to catch the worst of the gusts. Mist thins at the entrance and curls around the new barrier instead of swallowing the camp whole.

Bren stoops beside him, hauling a second log into place while the shadow-crows wheel once above the notch and settle there like dark sentries.

The wind hits hard enough to make the pine boughs shudder, but the fresh wall catches it and gives them a pocket of stillness. The camp becomes a cramped den of stone, wood, and breath, hidden from the clearing.