Hannah
The dawn did not break over the Kian estate so much as it bruised the sky, a heavy canopy of charcoal and violet that seemed to press down on the limestone battlements of my father's house. I stood by the window, my breath fogging the glass, watching the mist crawl across the manicured lawns like a living thing.
I looked down at my palm. Where the silver ceremonial dagger had tasted my blood only hours ago at the Council, there was nothing but smooth, unblemished skin. The Kian healing was aggressive, a testament to a lineage that refused to leave a mark of weakness. But as I stared at my hand, I felt the phantom itch of the blade.
It is a gift, Hannah, Arkin's voice rumbled in my mind, steady and ancient. But even a gift can be a shroud.
A shroud for a corpse, Ryan snapped, his mental presence pacing with a violent, restless energy. The house is quiet, but the woods are screaming. Can't you smell it? Stagnant water and old rot. Someone is counting the bricks in our walls.
