Draven.
The moon hung low and pale above the trees, its light spilling across the balcony floor like silver smoke.
While the city below was subdued under curfew, the silence up here was steady and almost deceitful.
I stood by the railing with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a half-filled glass in the other. The wind brushed against my skin, cool and sharp, tugging faintly at my shirt sleeves.
I had lost count of how long I had been out here. Maybe an hour. Maybe more.
The first burn of whiskey down my throat did little to chase away the thoughts. They came anyway—one after another. The war. Brackham. The vampires. And now… Alderic.
"He's old, Draven," Rhovan's voice rolled quietly in my mind, deep and steady. "You've known for a while this day would come."
"I know," I said aloud, staring at the horizon. "But knowing doesn't make it easier."
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft clink of glass as I swirled the amber liquid.
