Deep beneath the jagged cliffs, Manepear’s new cave base stretched like a hidden world carved out of stubborn stone. From the outside, it barely looked like anything at all. Just a narrow crack in the cliff face, half-covered by hanging vines and loose rock that blended in with everything around it. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d walk right past. He’d chosen that on purpose. The entrance was tight and uncomfortable, forcing anyone entering to duck and turn sideways for the first few steps. It kept out anything large. It kept out anything careless. But once you pushed far enough inside, the passage opened into a wide, uneven chamber that he had slowly turned into something he could almost call a home. Water dripped from the ceiling in a dozen places, some slow and steady, others irregular, splashing into shallow grooves in the stone floor. Each drop echoed softly through the cave, filling the space with a constant, quiet sound that never really went away. Mane had learned to sleep through it. Now, without it, the silence felt wrong. The air smelled damp and metallic, like wet iron and dirt mixed together. Cold, but not unbearable. The kind of cold that sank into your bones if you stayed too long without moving. He had shaped the cave himself over time, not with explosions or large tools just patience. Chipping away at rough edges. Clearing out loose rock. Dragging in crates, chests, and furniture piece by piece. Nothing here was fancy, but everything had a reason to be where it was. Near the center of the cave was the main living space. Several storage chests lined one wall, sorted by habit more than labels. Food, tools, spare armor, materials he didn’t want to lose. A rack held extra weapons, though only one of them ever really mattered. Further back was a smaller section he used to sleep. A thin bedroll, a couple of blankets, and a low stone wall he’d built just high enough to block the drafts. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was safe. And safety mattered more than comfort. Banners hung from the rock near the entrance, their fabric worn but still clear. His symbol. His mark. A quiet warning to anyone who knew how to read it.This place wasn’t meant to be welcoming, and he didn’t care.His day had been calmer than usual. Ever since he had finished training his brother in mastering the spear, there had been a strange lightness in his chest. He hadn’t said anything about it, hadn’t even really admitted it to himself, but the weight he’d been carrying for a long time felt… lighter. Like he’d finally set something down without realizing it. He felt more accomplished than he had in a while, which surprised him. He’d done plenty of things worth being proud of before. Survived worse. Won harder fights. Built more than this. But with Flame, it had been different. Teaching instead of fighting. Watching someone else grow with something he himself had mastered. Maybe it was just the fact that he hadn’t been alone or maybe it was the trust. He still remembered the first moment he’d seen Flame again, the way his hand had gone straight to his weapon, the way his mind had jumped to the worst conclusion possible. He had nearly attacked before the other even had a chance to defend himself.He’d felt foolish afterward but nobody could blame him. Not with the way things had ended with so many people before. Today, though, the world outside had decided to be difficult. The dripping from the ceiling had changed its rhythm, growing faster in some places, slower in others. Mane noticed it without really thinking about it, his mind slowly putting the pieces together, It was raining.