Night settled deeper over the Blackclaw estate, thick and watchful, as if the ruins themselves had drawn breath and were holding it in anticipation. The moon climbed higher, washing broken towers and fractured battlements in cold silver light. Shadows stretched long across the scorched stone, pooling in corners where blood had soaked into the earth, refusing to be forgotten.
Selara stood at the edge of the courtyard, boots planted firmly against cracked ground, senses sharp, alert, and wide open. The Nightborne energy within her stirred constantly now, no longer a distant echo but a living presence, coiling through her veins like silver fire restrained only by will. Every sound was sharpened, every subtle shift amplified the whisper of leaves beyond the walls, the low murmur of wolves moving in the forest, the faint warmth of Draven behind her, steady and insistent.
She didn't turn, but she felt him. She always did.
