(Almira’s POV) The night smelled of blood. Not wolf blood. Not human either. Magic. Ancient. Rotted. Old as the bones buried beneath this cursed land. I crouched low against the balcony stone, my hand wrapped tightly around the dagger hilt strapped to my thigh. The wind tore at my cloak as voices rose below — one I knew like the rhythm of my own breath. Lysander. And the other? Sweet. Sultry. Pretending to purr even now, even with the scent of death hanging in the air. Rachelle. I should’ve known. I *did* know. Every inch of my body had screamed it from the moment she looked at Hazel and Asher like they were keys instead of children. But I needed proof. Not just instinct. Not just rage. And tonight, I had it. I watched them through the cracked marble archway. Lysander stood sti