Ashyra couldn’t breathe.
She stared at the figure on the stone platform, her heart thundering in her chest like a war drum. His voice had changed—older, rougher, steeped in power—but she’d know it anywhere.
Malrick.
Stephan’s grip on her arm tightened. “Ashyra. Who is he?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze remained locked on the platform, on the man she’d thought long dead. The man who had once walked among her kind as a healer. As a brother.
“Ashyra.” Stephan’s voice was low, urgent. “Who is he?”
She swallowed, words heavy. “He was Silverclaw’s Head Shaman. A guide for the old rituals. A keeper of the sacred flames.”
Stephan looked back at the valley. “You said he was—”
“Dead.” Her voice cracked. “He died during the last Blood Moon war. Sacrificed himself to stop the spread o
