Tavany
Thorne’s voice cut through the night behind me—too sharp, too fast—and the instant he saw my hand, his breath fractured.
« Merde… »
The curse slipped out of him raw, stripped of centuries of composure.
I didn’t turn immediately.
The city stretched beneath us in a river of fractured light, skyscrapers glittering like cold stars. My pulse was finally slowing, but the aftermath still hummed under my skin. Power always left an echo. Tonight, it felt louder.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
The wind tugged at my coat, carrying the metallic scent upward.
He exhaled once—short, humorless.
« Rien, » he repeated softly. « Tu dis toujours ça. »
Nothing. You always say that.
His footsteps were soundless, but the air changed when he moved. The night itself seemed to lean toward him. Toward us
