The forest was alive, yet eerily silent. Selara's senses were hyper-aware, every leaf's rustle, every shifting shadow, even the distant thrum of Nightborne energy vibrating beneath her skin. Her silver veins pulsed faintly, a warning and a promise, reminding her of the surge she had barely controlled in the Second Trial. The ground beneath her bare feet was damp, scent-rich with moss and the faint tang of corrupted wolf blood. She inhaled sharply, trying to anchor herself, but the memory of Kaelen's smirk, half-vanished into the darkness, clawed at her focus.
She crouched low, muscles coiled like a spring. Fenryk's pack had gone ahead, their pawprints silent in the mud, and Draven always Draven moved just behind her, his golden eyes cutting through the dim light, unwavering. She felt the pull, subtle yet firm, of his presence, a tether to the world she sometimes feared losing herself to.
