The silence hurt more than any wound I’d ever taken.
It filled the tent, choking and thick as smoke. It crawled under my ribs until I couldn’t breathe. The air was still thick with her scent — wild and human and aching — and the bond between us flared with the same cold pulse it had since she walked out. Not broken. Not whole. Just bleeding slowly.
I should’ve gone after her. Pulled the truth from her teeth before it turned to something poisonous. Should’ve made her talk. But I didn’t. I’d fought wars easier than that woman’s silence.
The candle at my side had burned itself to ash. I pressed a hand against the map anyway — out of habit more than strategy — tracing the lines of the Conclave grounds. The arena. The tunnels. The ridges of stone that had been hewn by generations of Alphas
