The night did not end cleanly. It frayed.
Mist rolled through the Northern Veil like a living thing, coiling around shattered trees and scorched earth, slipping through broken stone and blood-darkened soil. The Blackclaw estate stood bruised and breathing, its ancient wards humming weakly, stones etched with old magic flickering as though unsure whether to hold or finally surrender.
Selara stood alone in the inner courtyard, boots sunk slightly into damp ground, the chill of the night seeping through her skin. For the first time in days, the silver veins beneath her flesh were dim, barely visible, the Nightborne power within her unusually quiet. Not gone never gone but restrained, as if crouched low, waiting.
She hated the silence.
