Sterling's body lay half-curled at the circle's broken edge, "You did it," Beckett murmured, voice raw from the snarl he'd forced down his throat. "You did what Rhett never could."
Magnolia's mouth twitched. It might have been a laugh if it hadn't sounded like a bone cracking. "Did I?"
Beckett's fingers brushed Sterling's collar, pushing the torn fabric aside. Beneath the shredded cloth, Sterling's skin was slick with old blood, but a shape glowed faintly where his sternum should have been , a lattice of thin, black lines pulsing like veins carved from soot.
Beckett hissed. "Gods."
Magnolia knelt, boots scraping against the cold floor. She pressed her fingertips to the edge of the mark , a brand that hadn't burned out with Sterling's final breath. It felt cold. Dead. Yet under her skin, her wolf shivered, ears flat, hackles bristling.
"He carried it all this time," Beckett said, voice low. "The Ash Child. Gabriel's rot. It's in him still."
