Draven's pov
Malrik's arrival was a storm wrapped in leather and arrogance.
The gates hadn't even fully opened before I heard the engine,black exhaust coughing from a jagged, retrofitted motorbike like a war cry. Soldiers paused as he pulled up, helmet low, jacket spattered with grime from roads I didn't care to know about.
I knew that bike. I knew that posture.
And I knew that smirk even before he pulled off the helmet.
"Still holding grudges, little brother?" Malrik drawled as he swung off the seat.
I didn't answer. I just stared.
He hadn't changed much. Same scar down his left cheek, same silver ring through his brow, same eyes that looked like ours,but colder. Harder. As if he'd taken all the fire in our blood and let it burn unchecked.
The Council had summoned him behind my back. They wanted someone ruthless. Someone detached. Someone willing to do what I couldn't.
And of course, they called the bastard who'd sold his loyalty for coin and survival.
