The fire cracked low, a quiet pulse in the dark. Gideon didn’t look up at first—just tilted his head slightly, the glow brushing over his dreads, catching on the sharp edges of his jaw.

Then, in that deep, steady voice that feels like gravel wrapped in silk, he murmured:

“I can hear you, dear. You shouldn’t keep trying to see me.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They rolled across the cold air like a warning, like a prophecy, like someone who’d already counted the beats of your breath before you stepped into the clearing.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He just sat there, shadows curling at the edges of his boots, as if even the darkness itself listened when he spoke.