The world narrowed to a single line of stone and ice.
Blackthorne behind him.
Frostclaw before him.
Faye in chains between.
Kael couldn’t feel his hands.
He’d clenched them too tightly, nails biting his palms until he smelled his own blood under the cold, his wolf pacing just beneath his skin, tearing for freedom.
She was close enough to see every bruise.
Far enough that he couldn’t touch her.
Her wrists were wrapped in Frostclaw sigils, glowing faint blue where they pinned her hands behind her back. Her skin looked too pale against the iron. Her eyes—those storm-touched Solstice eyes—found his across the pass.
They were steady.
She was not begging.
That almost broke him more.
“Alpha Kael,” Bran said lightly, as if they were at a summit and not standing on the throat of a war.
