The battlefield still echoed with the clang of steel and the cries of dying rogues, but the heart of the war had shifted.
Drevon lay chained at Zaria’s feet, his chest heaving, his grin unsettling even in defeat. The silver burned his skin, sizzling against his flesh, the smell of scorched wolf rising into the air. He should have been writhing, broken, begging for mercy. Yet, instead, he laughed.
The sound was sharp, jarring, cutting through the air like shattered glass. Warriors who moments ago had cheered her victory faltered, glancing uneasily at one another.
“You think this is over, little queen?” Drevon rasped, his eyes gleaming with madness. “You think chaining me ends the war? I am only the beginning. My blood has already been spilled, and with it, the seal breaks.”
A chill spid
