They went at moonrise, which was only a rumor behind cloud. The pasture was a bowl of gray. Mara carried Elias. Kael walked beside her, not ahead, not behind—beside, as if he had practiced being a companion instead of a threat. At the woven-wood fence she stopped, heart hammering.
"I am Mara of Briarholt," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "Mother of Elias. I witness his choice. I do not give him to you as property. I stand with what he began."
Kael knelt—still enormous, still horned—and laid his open hand on the fence rail. "I am Kaelor Venn of the High Stall, last sworn of the seam-keepers. I accept the child's choice without claim of ownership. I bind my strength to his safety for as long as the Bond breathes."
Mara guided Elias's hand. The baby touched the claw as before, curious, unafraid.
Light answered—brighter this time, shot through with threads of white. It ran the fence like a living thing, sank into the grass, and rose again around the three of them in a low circle. Far off in the village, a dog barked and fell silent. In the Reach, something large shifted and then was still, as if the forest itself were listening.
Kael exhaled. "Truth holds."
From the lane came the sound of running.
The seeker had dropped her herbalist face. What came over the stile was thin and fast, joints bending wrong, mouth open too wide, calling in a voice like dry leaves: Found—found—the hinge—the hinge—
Kael moved.
Mara had seen bulls charge. She had never seen anything that large move with that kind of precision. He put himself between her and the seeker, caught the thing's reaching arms, and for a moment they strained in silence—curse-born strength against curse-born hunger. The seeker screamed without breath. Kael's claws found purchase. There was a sound like wet cloth tearing, and the seeker came apart into a flock of black moths that burned to ash before they reached the ground.
Mara clutched Elias. The baby had not cried. He watched the ash fall with solemn interest.