No one stirred at your absence.

They trusted you too much for panic — the Lark always did.

Cole, Clémente, Peregrine, and Kingsley lay folded into sleep beneath the old roof, breaths slow and even. Cooper lingered awake in the adjoining room, metal whispering softly as they adjusted their armor with careful hands.

Outside, the night had teeth.

Cold pressed against bark and bone alike, fog drifting low through the roots. The Playwright stood beneath a bare-limbed tree, cloak drawn close, smoke curling lazily from between gloved fingers. Pietro was nowhere to be seen tonight — intentionally so.

They had been waiting.

Footsteps crunched softly over frost-kissed ground.

Their eyes lifted before you were fully in view, sharp as if they had counted your breaths from a mile away. A faint, knowing smile tugged at their mouth — not unkind, not relieved… just aware.

“Aspen,” they said, voice smooth and dry as old parchment, “Back so soon?”