The morning air was sharp, biting, carrying the faint tang of frost through the Hollow Moon Pack’s courtyard. Silver didn’t feel it. She barely felt anything except the tremor under her skin, the residual echo of Drogo’s intrusion gnawing at her consciousness. Even as the sun crept over the treetops, painting the stones in pale gold, the warmth didn’t reach her.
She was already awake when Arthur entered her quarters, his usual controlled presence tense, like coiled steel.
“You didn’t sleep,” he observed, voice low, cautious.
“I—” She couldn’t finish. Words felt brittle, fragile. Drogo’s whisper was still a shadow behind her eyes, curling around her thoughts like smoke in a draftless room.
Arthur closed the distance, standing in front of her bed. “Tell me exactly what you felt last nigh
