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The jolt threw Ava back a step.
She caught herself against the fence post, splinters biting into her palm. The ground under her boots still hummed. Not loud. Just enough that she could feel it in her bones.
"What the hell was that?" Rain was already moving, one hand on his daughter's shoulder, the other reaching for the axe he'd propped against the shack.
Ava stared at her hand. The cut had already stopped bleeding. A thin red line across her thumb, smeared with dirt and sawdust. She'd hit it on a nail while hammering the last crossbeam into place. Hadn't thought much of it. Blood happened when you worked with your hands.
But the drop that fell. The one that hit the foundation stone.
That was different.
"I don't know." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. She wiped her hand on her pants and turned back to the half-built wall. The wood looked the same. The stones she'd stacked that morning were still there, crooked and uneven.
Except they weren't.
She stepped closer. The gaps between the stones had tightened. The mortar she'd slapped in two hours ago—watery, barely mixed—had set hard and smooth. The wood beams she'd lashed together with fraying rope now sat flush, like they'd been cut to fit.
"Ava." Rain's voice was low. Careful. "You need to tell me what's happening."
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Because she didn't know.
Sera appeared in the doorway of the shack, the baby on her hip. "Is it an earthquake? Should we—"
"It's not an earthquake." Ava's voice was flat. She crouched, pressing her palm against the foundation stone. Still warm. Not from the sun. The sun had been behind clouds all day.
This was something else.
The hum under her hand pulsed once, like a heartbeat, and went still.
"Okay." Rain's tone had shifted. Not scared. Wary. "So what is it?"
Ava straightened. She could lie. She could tell them it was nothing. A tremor. Old stones settling. But Rain had fought in the northern campaigns. He knew when someone was holding back.
And Sera was already watching her with those sharp apprentice-merchant eyes, the kind that cataloged every hesitation and filed it away for later.
"I think," Ava said slowly, "it's me."
Silence.
Rain's grip on the axe didn't loosen. "Explain."
She didn't have an explanation. Not one that made sense. But she picked up the hammer anyway and walked to the next section of wall. Three beams, still unattached. She'd planned to lash them tomorrow when her hands stopped shaking.
She set the first beam against the post. Held it there. Felt the weight of it, the grain of the wood under her fingers.
And then she felt something else.
A pull. Low in her chest, behind her ribs. Like a string yanking tight.
The beam shifted. Just a fraction. But she hadn't moved it.
The wood slotted into place, flush against the post, the angle perfect. The nail hole lined up without her adjusting it.
She heard Sera suck in a breath.
Ava drove the nail in. Three hits. The beam didn't budge.
She moved to the second one. Same pull. Same perfect fit.
By the third beam, her hands were shaking again, but not from exhaustion.
"Windstone bloodline." Sera's voice was barely a whisper. "I thought that was a story."
Ava's hammer slipped. She caught it before it hit the ground. "It is a story."
"Stories don't make walls build themselves." Rain hadn't moved, but his voice was closer. She didn't look at him. Couldn't.
"It's not building itself." Ava set the hammer down. Her pulse was too fast. "I'm building it. It's just—"
"Listening," Sera finished. "The land's listening to you."
Ava wanted to argue. Wanted to say it was coincidence, or luck, or maybe she was just better at this than she thought.
But the foundation stone was still warm.
And the wall she'd been breaking her back over for two days had just finished itself in under ten minutes.
"My father said the gift died two generations back." Her voice came out rough. "He said it burned out. That we were lucky."
"Lucky?" Rain's tone was careful again. Too careful.
Ava turned. He was still holding the axe, but his daughter had moved behind him, peeking out at Ava with wide eyes.
"The gift eats people," Rain said quietly. "That's what they say in the border towns. Windstone lords who pushed too hard. Built too fast. Bled too much. The land took them in the end."
Ava's stomach twisted. "That's—"
"True?" Sera's voice cut in. She'd stepped down from the shack, still holding the baby. Her face was pale but her eyes were sharp. "Is it true?"
Ava didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
Her father had never talked about it. Her mother had left when Ava was six. The family records were locked in the capital estate, and she'd been dumped here with nothing but a deed and a warning to stay out of the way.
But she remembered her grandmother. The way her hands had shaken near the end. The way she'd refused to touch the garden, even when the servants begged her to save the roses.
"I don't feel eaten," Ava said finally. It sounded stupid the second it left her mouth.
Rain didn't laugh. "Not yet."
The howl cut through the hollow like a blade.
Ava's head snapped toward the trees. Too close. Wolves didn't come this close to settlements. Not unless they were starving.
Or unless they smelled blood.
"Inside." Rain's voice was sharp. "Now."
Sera was already moving, the baby clutched tight. Rain's daughter ran after her, stumbling over the uneven ground.
Ava grabbed the hammer. "The wall's not finished."
"It's finished enough."
"No." She was already moving toward the gap. Ten feet wide. Maybe more. She'd planned to close it tomorrow. Tomorrow was too late.
Another howl. Closer.
Rain swore and followed her. "You can't build a wall in five minutes."
"Watch me."
She didn't know if she believed it. But her blood was still on the foundation stone, and the land was still humming, and she didn't have another option.
She grabbed the first beam. No time to measure. No time to line it up.
She just pressed it into place and felt that pull again.
The beam snapped tight. Solid. Like it had always been there.
She grabbed the next one. Then the next.
Rain was beside her now, hauling stones, stacking them as fast as she set the beams. He didn't say anything. Didn't ask questions. Just moved.
The howl came again. This time she saw the shape in the trees. Low. Gray. Eyes like coals.
Not one wolf.
Three.
She slammed the last beam into place. Her hands were bleeding again. She didn't care.
The pull in her chest was a roar now. It hurt. Like something inside her was tearing open.
But the wall locked tight.
The first wolf hit it at full speed.
The impact sounded like a thunderclap. The beast yelped, tumbled back, scrambled to its feet.
The wall didn't budge.
Ava staggered. Rain caught her elbow. "You good?"
She nodded. Lied. Her vision was swimming. The hum under her boots had gone silent.
The wolves circled once, then melted back into the trees.
Rain let go of her arm. "That shouldn't have held."
"I know."
"That wood's green. The stones aren't even mortared all the way through."
"I know."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he picked up his axe and walked back toward the shack.
Ava stood there, staring at the wall. Her wall. It looked like any other hastily built border fence.
Except it had just thrown back a wolf that should have torn through it like paper.
She turned toward the shack. Stopped.
There was something leaning against the fence post. Old. Rusted. A piece of armor, maybe. A breastplate. She hadn't seen it before.
She crouched, brushing dirt off the surface.
Words. Scratched into the metal. Faint, but readable.
Clear Windstone Hollow before first snow.
Ava's blood went cold.
She looked up at the trees. At the empty stretch of land her father had dumped her in.
Clear it.
Why?
And who the hell had left this here?