Ronan’s stance didn’t waver, but the moment stretched differently now. The fighters around them weren’t advancing—they were holding. Waiting. Calculating.
And then I saw him.
Rowan.
He stepped into view from the ranks of the survivors he had raised, calm, deliberate, a predator in human form. The moment his gaze landed on Ronan, the tension tightened like a wire. Nyra knew him. Darius had called him a friend once. And now he was here, orchestrating this warning with every measured move around him.
“They’re precise,” I murmured, voice low. “Not reckless.”
Ronan’s eyes flicked briefly to me. “Exactly.”
Rowan didn’t approach recklessly either. He let the space between him and Ronan speak volumes, letting the fighters’ positioning amplify the message: they were not here for me. Not yet.
