The execution happened before dawn. Calla felt it in her bones before she heard a word. She was standing on the eastern balcony when the silver beneath her skin went suddenly cold—sharp, cutting, wrong. The bond lurched, not with pain, but with a violent pull, like something had been ripped loose without warning. Adrian.
She turned just as Lorenzo emerged from the corridor, his face tight, eyes shadowed. “It’s done,” he said quietly. Calla’s heart slammed. “What’s done?” Lorenzo hesitated. That hesitation told her everything. “You didn’t tell me,” she said slowly. Adrian’s voice came from behind her. “I didn’t need to.”
She turned. He stood in the doorway, jacket discarded, shirt dark with blood that hadn’t yet dried. His eyes were calm. Too calm. “Who?” Calla asked. “Alpha Rask,” Adria
