At the cloister, Theodore's gaze drifted to the walls, lined with neatly arranged scriptures copied by those seeking enlightenment. Instinctively, he searched for Daphne's. Her handwriting was atrocious—wild, unrefined, nothing like the delicate script of a proper she-wolf. Every letter she'd written him was a messy scrawl, practically illegible.
Before he could find her familiar scrawl, hurried footsteps echoed behind him. Theodore turned, his voice automatic. "What have you learned these past days? Come back with—"
The word caught in his throat, his expression icing over. "Where's Daphne?"
A chill radiated from him, making the guard tremble. "The temple says… Daphne vanished seven days ago, with that golden light. She's gone."
Night fell, thick as ink. At House Sinclair, the air was
