The night was not silent—it pulsed with blood, fire, and the ragged rhythm of survival. Smoke still curled from the broken trees where fire arrows had struck, and the stench of iron and ash hung thick in the clearing. Draven’s wolves circled the edges, snarling and snapping at the last of the enemy stragglers, while Elaria pressed her palm against his bloodied chest, feeling the hard thud of his heart beneath her hand.
“You can’t keep fighting like this,” she hissed, breathless, her violet-gray eyes searching his face.
Draven’s golden gaze burned with defiance. “And leave you unguarded? Never.”
She hated the way those words sank into her bones, hated the shiver that followed. Her healer’s training screamed for him to rest, but the bond tethering them—reluctant, jagged, undeniable—pulled
