Silence did not bring peace.
It brought weight.
The battlefield stood frozen in the aftermath—the crack sealed, the corrupted wolves fallen still, the air thick with the scent of ash and something deeper.
Something altered.
Elara stood at the center of it.
Unmoving.
Unshaken.
Changed.
The silver light around her had dimmed, but it hadn't vanished. It pulsed faintly beneath her skin, steady, controlled—but now threaded with something darker.
A whisper of crimson.
Draven saw it.
He felt it.
And for the first time since he had met her—
Fear brushed the edges of his instincts.
"Elara…"
His voice was quieter now.
Careful.
Like approaching something fragile.
Or dangerous.
Her gaze shifted toward him slowly.
Not delayed.
Not confused.
Just… deliberate.
"I'm okay," she said.
The words were calm.
Too calm.
Draven stepped closer anyway, his eyes searching hers for any sign that she was still her.
"You don't look okay."
