Night fell sharp and sudden, like a blade slicing through silence.
The den seemed to hold its breath around me as I lay swaddled in furs, Ronan's hand still warm where it rested on my belly after dinner. The token Mira had carved—a rough little wolf no bigger than my thumb—pressed into my palm like a promise I wasn't quite ready to believe. But promises didn't hush the thoughts. They came anyway, relentless and sharp-edged, the kind that twist into dreams.
First came the heat. That prickling, rising heat that makes every hair on your arms stand up.
Then Jasper's hall caught fire.
Flames licked at tapestries I'd memorized from countless dinners. Orange tongues hungrily devoured rafters where I'd imagined a life that would never be mine. People scrambled, shouting, tripping over expensive rugs. Their faces were frozen in shock—mouths open, eyes wide—everyone suddenly equal in terror.
I stood in the doorway, watching it all burn.
