The moment Zyran dropped his concealment spell, everyone snapped back into chaos.
Figures surged out of the darkness like they'd been waiting—because they had. Arrows already notched, the Fangridge assassins didn't even blink. Their heads turned in eerie unison, scanning the moonlit space with glowing predator eyes.
And the second Isabella was spotted—nestled in the stranger's arms—they hesitated.
Just for a second.
Confusion cracked across their expressions like a ripple. Who the hell was this man holding her?
But their leader—tall, with stitched furs and rage—lifted two fingers in the air. A silent command.
Release.
In a flash, arrows tore through the air with deadly precision, slicing the moonlight.
Isabella's breath hitched in her throat.
Her fingers dug into Zyran's bare chest—uncomfortably sculpted and annoyingly inviting—but terror made modesty feel optional.
She shut her eyes and braced for the searing pain of death.
It never came.
