The night was heavy with silence, the kind that pressed on the skin like a second cloak. The halls of the Flameborn keep glowed with dim torchlight, shadows flickering along the blackstone walls. Every step Aria took echoed faintly, a reminder of how fragile their temporary unity was.
The triplets flanked her, each carrying a weight that went beyond their blades. Marcus moved with his usual calculated precision, his eyes sweeping corners and doorways. Tobias' jaw was set, his aura sharp and brimming with irritation, as though the air itself had wronged him. Dorian was quieter than usual, his silver gaze focused forward, protective yet clouded by thoughts he hadn't spoken aloud.
Tonight was supposed to be one of preparation, of planning their next advance against the Hollow Fang fortress. Yet something in the air—it wasn't just tension, it was the scent of betrayal—made Aria's skin prickle.
