Rowan’s POV
The road to the Southern Rim stretched out like a scar across the territory—cracked asphalt giving way to gravel, then to nothing but dust and shadow the farther I pushed. I’d been driving for what felt like hours, the sun barely cresting the jagged hills, painting everything in sick, bloody orange. My knuckles were white on the wheel, the leather creaking every time I flexed my fingers. The engine growled low, matching the rumble in my chest.
I kept telling myself this was stupid.
The mines were probably exaggerated. Pack stories. Something the Vances spun to keep their debtors in line—like ghost tales for pups. Humans didn’t just vanish into holes in the ground and never come back. That was dramatic. Isla was dramatic. She’d probably be waiting at the Academy gates tomorro
