The sky bled silver as the sun cracked the edge of the horizon, casting long shadows through the orchard where Jude sat alone, cross-legged beneath the fig-glyph tree. His arms still glowed faintly from the mountain's touch, the glyphs now fully part of his skin, not painted, not temporary, but alive. They pulsed softly with his heartbeat. Birds stirred in the canopy overhead, and a breeze stirred the ribbons tied to the trees, causing them to flutter and whisper like voices just out of hearing. He inhaled deeply. The island smelled different now, richer, fuller, almost sentient. As if it had taken notice.
Behind him, footsteps padded across soft grass. He didn't turn. He already knew her rhythm.
Grace knelt beside him and leaned into his shoulder, her hand brushing lightly over the glowing marks. "You didn't sleep."
"I couldn't," he said. "It feels like something's waiting."
"We're all waiting," she murmured. "But no one wants to pressure you. Not after what you saw."
