Far away, the Van Turner mansion stirred with unease. The council chamber was filled with restless voices. Elder Rian's staff cracked against the marble floor as he silenced them.
"He has survived too long to be ignored."
The elders glanced at one another. The "he" was obvious. Garfield Van Turner—prodigal failure, exiled son . His name was whispered across the continent now. Tales of his dragon-slaying, of his cold, merciless demeanor, of his vanishing into the tomb rumored to hold gods no himan shall enter and yet he did.
But they had another shining light: Liora Van Turner.
Seated among the elders, Liora said nothing. Her long silver hair cascaded down her shoulders, her eyes sharp as polished steel. Already at the Eighth Late, already a monster of talent. They praised her openly, comparing her to the ancestors who had once shaken empires.
Still, the mention of her brother's name carved a shadow into her heart. Garfield. The brother who once trained with her in the gardens, who once shielded her from the cruelty of their half-siblings. She remembered his soft laugh when their mother was still alive. But she also remembered his cold eyes the day he vanished.
"Do not dwell on him," said Elder Kael, her mentor. "He is a relic of weakness. You are the future."
Liora nodded stiffly, but in the silence of her heart, she wondered. If Garfield truly had clawed his way into the tomb of legend, was he still weak? Or had the cruelty of their clan forged something far worse than they could imagine?
Her unease only grew when spies returned, reporting sightings of twisted creatures wandering the desert—hybrids of claw and man.
The elders dismissed it as rumor. But Liora felt dread gnawing at her. Garfield was alive. And he was changing.she feared his return