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