She felt it.
Not as pain.
Not as fear.
As disruption.
Nyxara Vale stood at the edge of a cliff where the world thinned, where ley lines braided beneath the earth like veins beneath skin. The night wind tugged at her dark hair, carrying with it the faint scent of scorched stone and grief that was not her own.
Ashryn stirred.
Not restless.
Not alarmed.
Awake.
The wolf lifted her head within Nyx’s chest, smoke-gray form unfolding with deliberate grace. Gold-flecked eyes narrowed, gaze turning—not toward the forest below, but far beyond it.
She nearly broke, Ashryn observed.
Nyx’s fingers curled slowly at her side. “She didn’t.”
The words were quiet. Certain.
The echo had reached them like a tremor through bone—an uneven pulse that should not have existed yet. Too early. Too raw.
