Kaelen's POV.
The silence in the ravine didn't feel like peace.
Fenrir's weight against my shoulder was heavy with feeling of someone who had given up.
I stayed on my knees for a heartbeat too long, my fingers still curled into the rough fabric of Fenrir's tunic. A few paces away, Varro stood like a sentinel, his breathing heavy and ragged, the fresh mark on his throat dripping red down his collarbone.
The creature, the nightmare Hecate had woven from the scraps of my past remained frozen in mid-lung, its claws inches from the stone.
"It's over," I whispered, though the words felt empty.
Hecate stepped out of the shadows near the ravine's edge. Her smile hadn't vanished, but it had shifted.
"Over?" she echoed. She looked at Fenrir's slumped form, then at the mark on Varro's neck. "You've stabilized the storm, Kaelen. You've anchored the King. But look at what you had to drown to keep the ship afloat."
