The silence that followed Fenris’s transformation was more violent than the explosion.
I stood in the center of the square, my lungs burning with the scent of ozone and cooling stone. Fenris—the Alpha, the tyrant, the man who had been the architect of my earliest nightmares—was now a statue of silver and red. His hand was still frozen on the hilt of the sword, a permanent lock on the sarcophagus of the "Mother." His sacrifice wasn't an act of love for me; it was an act of penance for the world he had helped break.
"He's gone," Sarah whispered. She was standing a few feet away, her small hands shaking as she touched the cold, metallic hem of the stone-Fenris's cloak. "Elara, his heart... I can't feel it anymore. It’s just... stone."
I couldn't answer her. My own heart was a jagged rhythm
