The wolves did not scatter, but the torches in the courtyard burned lower. Every look turned suspicious as they remained in restless knots, their voices hissing like wind through parched leaves. Blood, smoke, and worse, expectation, were all in the air.
Every time Elaria breathed, her chest constricted. The words echoed over and over in her skull:
Tomorrow night, I claim the pit.
She had to stop it. Somehow.
Her palms stung where her nails had broken skin during the declaration, but she barely felt it. Under her skin, her wolf was pacing frantically in circles, her body a mass of fire and tremor. She felt lightheaded from anger and terror, but determination was a sharper edge that loomed above them both.
Draven couldn’t fight tomorrow. He wouldn’t survive.
She would also lose him
