Art’s POV
*Knock.*
*Knock.*
*Knock.*
Three slow, deliberate strikes against the wood.
My hand drops to the grip of my knife. Beside me, Soren is on his feet, ignoring the sharp intake of breath as his healing ribs protest. Draven’s temperature spikes, the air in the small kitchen turning dry and oven-hot.
But it’s Eira who scares me.
She isn’t just tense. She’s gone completely, terrifyingly still. Her scent hits the back of my throat like a sharp, bitter ash. It’s not just anxiety. It’s pure, unadulterated terror.
Down the hall, Mrs. Agatha’s radio is playing a low soap opera. The building is completely ordinary. But the air pressure in our hallway has dropped so fast my ears pop.
I step to the door. I don't open it fully. I undo the chain, leaving the door cracked just a few
