“We have to go, Isolde.”
Alpha Draven’s voice was deep and cutting, echoing through the mist that had yet to fade fully.
Isolde stared at him in disbelief. “Father, I won’t—”
“Enough!” Draven barked. “You nearly died by your own power. I won’t lose my daughter to her own foolishness and rage.”
Isolde fell silent. The wound on her shoulder still bled; her aura flickered weakly, but her eyes burned with a hatred that made her look like a mad she-wolf.
She glared at Arwen, who lay weakly in Zion’s arms, her breathing still laboured, the faint white glow trembling on her skin.
“I’ll come back for her,” Isolde whispered, her voice soft yet heavy with unquenched vengeance.
Draven’s gaze hardened. He gestured to two guards. “Take her out of the valley. Now.”
Silence.
Zion watched as Isol
