Tristan
The aftermath of the Great Hall felt like the air before a lightning strike—heavy, ionized, and thick with the scent of impending disaster. I had retreated to the training pits, pushing my body through a grueling circuit of combat drills until the muscles in my arms screamed and sweat stung my eyes. But I couldn't outrun the memory of her.
Every time I closed my eyes, I didn’t see the enemy I was supposed to be training for; I saw Rena. I saw the way her blood had looked against the white stone floor—red, vibrant, and more real than anything else in that room of masks.
"You’re going to break that dummy’s neck, and it’s not even a shifter," a voice called out.
I stopped my strike mid-air. Brian was leaning against the wooden fence, his arms crossed. He didn't look amused anymore
