CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Fang of Origin
Lira Velasquez
The dawn after Ravenspire was thick with silence. Not peace—no, not after the Witch Queen’s warning. It was the silence before a storm, where breath feels borrowed and every heartbeat carries weight.
Killian hadn’t said a word since we returned.
Not to me. Not to anyone.
He hadn’t slept either—I could tell by the way he paced the library at midnight, tracing his fingers along dusty spines like they held salvation. The shadows under his eyes were darker than the bruises from battle. Maybe this curse wasn’t just mine anymore.
I was still wearing the same cloak I’d worn into Ravenspire. It smelled of damp moss and magic—like the moment just before a match strikes. My cursed mark itched, coiling down my back like a slow poison. The Witch
