They left at dusk, when the swamp’s hush cracked open enough for Rowan to slip between the cypress knees like a ghost dragging a hurricane behind her ribs. Lucien moved ahead, boots silent in the muck, the last of the swamp’s roots brushing his ankles as if reluctant to let him go too far. The hush clung to his veins now — not his master, not his leash, just another piece of his hunger Rowan kept tucked under her palm like a charm.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. Every breath Lucien exhaled came out cold enough to hush the mosquitoes that hummed at the swamp’s edge. Rowan walked barefoot, salt dust flaking off her soles like broken promises. Behind her, the hush rose through her hair, old whispers slipping under her tongue every time she tasted the night air.
Stormborn. Lock. Breaker.
