The snapping of the Blackwood mate bond had left a physical mark on Ariah’s soul, but it was not a wound. It felt like the lifting of a heavy, suffocating shroud. For the first time in a year, she could breathe without tasting Caleb’s stagnant, suffocating anxiety. Her mind was her own. Her wolf, once a starved, cowering thing in the corner of her ribs, was beginning to stretch, her eyes glowing with a new, dangerous gold.
When they returned to Ironspire, the air in the castle felt different. The servants no longer looked at her with tentative pity, and the guards snapped to attention with a crisp, genuine reverence. But Ariah knew that respect in the Grey Mountains was not merely given; it was forged in fire and maintained with strength.
"They look at you and see my mark," Lycaon murmur
