The flames around the trial circle had not dimmed since Corvin’s defeat. If anything, they burned higher, restless, as though the gods themselves demanded more blood before they would let the night end.
Draven stood in the center, chest heaving, blood still dripping from the gash across his shoulder. He had not cleaned it. He hadn’t needed to. He wanted them to see it—that even bloodied, even pressed to the edge, he had not fallen.
But in the silence that followed, something changed.
The next challenger did not step forward.
Instead, a ripple of whispers moved through the crowd like a gust of cold wind. Wolves leaned toward each other, murmuring, eyes shifting not toward Draven… but toward her.
Toward Elaria.
Her heart thudded, a pulse too loud in the back of her ears. She sat straig
