We hiked for forty-five minutes, deeper into the Redforest than I had ever been. The path disintegrated into nothing, leaving us to navigate through dense undergrowth and ancient trees until we broke into a hidden clearing.
It was an old sparring ground, abandoned years ago. Weeds choked the edges, but the center was packed earth, hardened by decades of violence.
"Let's make this quick," Dante said, pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it onto a bush. "Mila is making lasagna. I don't want to be late."
He waved Bastien forward. "Come on, kid. Show me what you've got."
Bastien stripped off his shirt.
I sucked in a breath.
His back was a ruin. A series of long, jagged scars ran from his shoulder to his hip—claw marks, deep and vicious. They looked recent, the skin angry and red
