The moon hung low over the Northern Veil, silver light cutting through the dense fog that clung to the forest floor. Shadows twisted and stretched unnaturally as if the trees themselves were aware of the approaching storm. Selara crouched behind a charred boulder, her silver veins pulsing faintly beneath her skin, each thrum a heartbeat in sync with the wild magic of the land. The forest around her was eerily silent, the usual hum of nocturnal life muted, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Draven was beside her, crouched low, muscles coiled like a predator ready to spring. His gold eyes swept the perimeter with calculated precision, every detail noted, every movement anticipated. Selara felt the familiar pull between them, the unspoken tether of power and trust that had grown tighter with every battle, every shared heartbeat, every glance that lingered just a second too long.
