The morning after the confrontation with Eamon, the atmosphere was heavy with uncertainty. The clearing where the battle had taken place was eerily silent, as if the land itself had taken a breath, holding its secrets. Elena stood at the edge of the camp, staring into the distance. The echo of Roan's and Eamon's words still lingered in her mind, like a distant murmur from the past that wouldn't let go.
Eamon had joined them—reluctantly, yes, but his allegiance was clear. Yet, even as Elena tried to believe in the possibility of healing the rift, doubt gnawed at her. Was Eamon truly on their side, or was he just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike again?
Roan approached her quietly, his steps soft on the dew-covered grass. His presence, as always, was comforting—steady
