ARTHUR’S POV
The first thing I felt was pain.
Not sharp—worse.
Deep.
Ancient.
Like something had carved into the center of my ribcage and left its hand there.
I sucked in a full breath, lungs trembling, and my eyes snapped open.
White ceiling.
White linens.
The faint smell of moon-dust and healing herbs.
The healer’s hall.
My fingers twitched first.
Then my legs.
Then—
“Tyla.”
I jolted upright so fast the bandages across my chest tore.
She lay on the bed beside mine.
Still.
Too still.
Her hair spilled across the pillows like a midnight river, her skin pale as the moon. But her Mark—gods, her Mark—throbbed under her skin like a second heartbeat, each pulse fracturing the air around her in tiny ripples.
Not normal.
Not safe.
I reached for her wrist.
Warm.
But the warm
