The days in Bloodfang had begun to stretch into something that felt dangerously close to peace. A fragile, yet persistent, tranquility that settled over the packhouse like a warm blanket.
The trio—Lyra, Kyson, and Xander—had settled into a rhythm. Not perfectly, not without the occasional friction that came from three distinct personalities, but with something resembling harmony.
Kyson remained the quiet one, the stoic pillar of their bond. He was composed, intense, his gaze always watchful, but increasingly unable to hide the profound softness that bloomed at the edges of his touch. He would brush a stray strand of hair gently from Lyra’s face when she read beside him, his calloused fingers surprisingly delicate. Or he would wordlessly pull her to his chest if she yawned while standing
