The rain stopped before dawn, but the air in the Verge still tasted of iron and smoke. The courtyard of the ruined mansion was littered with the aftermath of blood: cracked stone, broken bodies, streaks of silver glinting under the first weak light. Wolves moved silently among the fallen, lifting the wounded, tending the dead. Their howls had faded into murmurs, low and raw, like a choir learning the sound of its own throat.
Aria stood at the steps where Maera Vex had fallen. Her aunt’s body was gone, carried into shadow by hands that did not meet her eyes. The blade in Aria’s hand was slick and heavy. She hadn’t sheathed it yet, as if doing so would admit the night had ended.
Her chest rose and fell with ragged breath. Each inhale reminded her of the claw marks scoring her ribs, each ex
