Within a single heartbeat, Varg broke free from the profound, freezing paralysis that had gripped the arena, his unyielding will locking back into place. As that single tear scattered into the dondurucu winter air, he did not allow his facade to crumble; he refused to let them see him shaken.
Instead, his slackened fingers re-tightened around mine with an even fiercer, more dominant possession. He squeezed my hand with such immense force that beneath my white-gold embroidered glove, I felt as though the very bones of our fingers were fusing together.
In the lethal silence where hundreds of thousands of wolves held their collective breath, Varg took a decisive step forward toward the marble balustrade. His tone was neither that of a lover unhinged by the return of a ghost nor a leader trembling for his throne. It was raw, distant, and wrapped in the unforgiving frost of the North as he called down to the pit.
"Welcome."
