The clash was instant—no time to breathe, no time to think. The moment Elaria raised her dagger, Veylen struck.
Draven was there, stopping Steel's shriek as his curved blade swept down at her with a roar that rocked the hall. Their weapons clashed, causing sparks to burst and stone to rattle off the walls.
Draven's muscles were tight and slippery with sweat, every line of his body carved into war, and his golden eyes burned with a primal fury. With his claws tearing across his uncle's arm, he pushed Veylen back a step, but Veylen just laughed, laughing through blood that tinted his sleeve, his smile growing as if he were being fueled by agony.
“Stronger than your father, Draven,” he sneered. “But not stronger than me.”
The words stirred the shadows in the hall like a whip. Wolves he
