The world had gone quiet.
Not the quiet of peace.
The quiet of aftermath.
Rowan lay motionless in the crater of scorched earth his power had left behind, his body limp, his skin too pale. Moonlight flickered above, but it no longer felt like a blessing. It felt like a memory—distant, hollow, echoing.
Quinn’s hands were trembling as he cradled his son’s face.
“Rowan. Baby, wake up—please.”
Jace knelt beside him, breath ragged, his claws still extended, blood on his palms—not his, not Rowan’s. Garrick’s. What was left of him had retreated into the shadows like a wounded animal, or perhaps a defeated vessel, his fate unknown for now.
But none of that mattered.
Only the boy in the dirt.
Only the silence where a heartbeat should have been.
“No,” Quinn whispered again. “No, you promise
