The silence that followed the storm was not a peaceful one. It was the heavy, ringing silence of a battlefield after the final blow has landed, a silence thick with the smell of ozone, wet stone, and the metallic ghost of spilt blood.
Within the high-arched sanctuary of the guest wing, the flickering orange glow of the hearth fire was the only thing fighting back the oppressive gloom of the early morning.
The twins were asleep, finally, their small bodies tangled together in a singular pile of exhaustion on the oversized velvet bed. Myla’s thumb was tucked into her mouth, her breathing rhythmic and shallow, while Leo’s hand remained clamped firmly around the edge of his mother’s tunic, even in the depths of unconsciousness.
Elena sat on the edge of the mattress, her spine a rigid line
