The first light of dawn crawled across the war camp like the touch of something fragile, golden streaks spilling over battered tents and weary faces. Smoke still hung in the air, remnants of last night's battle with the rogue clans who had come under the Hollow Fang's banner. The triplets' forces had held the line, but it had been a costly stand.
Aria woke to the muted sound of murmurs outside her tent. She blinked against the fading darkness, her body heavy with exhaustion. Sleep had not come easy. Even bound to the triplets, whose warmth usually anchored her, her mind had been restless—haunted by images of the Flameborn crown, of Voryn's shadowed form whispering her name.
She rose carefully, pulling on her cloak, and stepped out into the morning. The camp was alive with quiet urgency. Warriors patched wounds, scouts returned from night patrols, and the scent of blood mingled with the smell of burning wood.
