Velthiri's jaw remained sculpted ice. "Tame," she repeated, each syllable crisp enough to chip stone. "Not command. Share breath, not bridle. If you can."
Light seeped into the treetops long before sun-discs pierced the canopy. It came pale and thin at first—silver threads beading on every leaf—then unfurled into mellow gold that painted the high bridges. Sylara woke to that glow, arms folded tight around her quiver like a child clutching a doll. Her moss-bed reeked of pine sap, and tiny white blossoms had opened on the pillow of greenery overnight. She brushed them away, still groggy, and rolled her shoulders until each joint popped.
