Lyra's POV
The fire crackled low, casting gold across the walls of Kaelan's war chamber.
Rain still whispered outside, tapping against the windows like restless fingers a haunting reminder of the night that refused to end.
I sat on the far end of the room, cloak heavy with rain and blood, watching the Alpha who had once haunted my nightmares.
Kaelan Draven stood before the hearth, shirt torn, the wound on his ribs stitched and still seeping through the gauze. Every line of his body spoke of control the kind built from years of leadership, loss, and rage buried under restraint.
But his eyes they were the storm.
"What was that crest doing on a warlock's neck?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. "Silverfang's crest died with my family."
He didn't look at me. "Maybe not. Maybe someone's been keeping it alive for their own purpose."
