The sun climbed higher, turning the churned, blood-stained snow of the riverbank into a blinding, crystalline white. But the warmth was a lie; the air remained bitter, and the scent of death was a heavy, metallic shroud over the valley.
As Lorenzo’s declaration echoed against the granite cliffs, the remaining Eastern warriors did not flee. They sank. One by one, they dropped to their knees in the frigid slush, their heads bowed. It wasn't the submission of respect—not yet—but the hollowed-out shock of a pack whose psychic anchor had been violently severed. Without Silas, they were a collection of broken strings, drifting in a sudden, terrifying silence.
Lorenzo’s hand tightened around mine. His palm was hot, his pulse a steady, thrumming drum against my skin. Through the Adhiero bond, I
