Zyx, meanwhile, sat beneath the trees with the stillness of a creature who’d learned to listen to the silence. He’d spent the day pondering the same question: *Who are we, when the storm has passed?* The answer came in whispers, not words—scars on the body, lessons in the blood, the quiet understanding that all creatures, even the smallest, held the same light within. As the sky cleared and the last of the aurora faded, he felt the weight of his thoughts settle into the earth, as if the world had paused to remember. Tomorrow, the river would sing again, and the hunt would begin.
The night was long, and the world felt alive with the quiet hum of what had been and what might yet be.