VALERIE.
The morning of the attack dawned unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
The skies were steel-gray, windless, and cold. Even the birds refused to sing. I stood on the highest balcony of the southern tower, cloaked in silver, my hair braided back in twin coils down my spine. My hands trembled, but not from fear.
Anticipation.
The war room had buzzed with alerts since dawn. Smoke had been spotted near the River Fang outpost—a remote but vital settlement bordering the rogue-infested territories. Dorian’s scouts hadn’t returned. The silence screamed louder than any horn of warning.
“Do you feel it?” I whispered to no one. “Yes,” said a voice behind me.
Jason stepped into the sunlight, dressed in red-black armor that gleamed with fire runes. His eyes scanned the horizon before landing on me
