Layla’s wrists burned where the iron shackles bit into her skin. She stumbled forward as the rogues dragged her across uneven ground, the scent of damp earth and blood thick in the air. The night was unnaturally still, the sky painted in streaks of crimson from the ever-rising Blood Moon. It loomed above, watching, waiting.
Ahead, a lone figure stood beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient oak, flanked by more of her father’s loyalists. Gideon Blackthorne. His silhouette was eerily calm against the chaos of the world around them. His presence alone sent a cold shiver through Layla’s bones.
But her focus wasn’t on him. It was on the broken figure kneeling at his feet.
“Mother!” Layla’s voice was raw with desperation as she tried to surge forward, only for her captors to yank her back.
