Rowan doesn’t start with instructions.
That’s the first thing that unsettles me.
We’re standing in the clearing behind Selene’s cabin, early morning mist clinging low to the ground, cool against my ankles. The forest feels alert today—quiet, but watchful, like it’s holding its breath.
So am I.
Rowan faces me, hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed in a way that speaks of control rather than ease. He’s taller than I realized up close—broad shoulders, solid build, the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself. His dark hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping at his temples, and when the light hits his eyes just right, they’re not truly gray but something softer. Moon-washed. Old.
Not sharp like Damien’s had been.
Steady.
“You don’t train power,” Rowan says q
