"Something's wrong with her," Dante's voice was low, tense, like a growl forced through gritted teeth. He crouched beside the sleeping form on the mat, Liora's skin pale as ash, her breathing shallow and uneven. A bowl of untouched soup lay cold beside her.
Elira knelt nearby, clutching the edge of her shawl, eyes wide with terror. "She's not waking up. She won't answer me. She…she keeps twitching, like she's fighting something inside."
Dante pressed two fingers to Liora's wrist. Her pulse was faint, flickering like a dying flame. "Call the healer," he barked.
"She already came," Elira whispered. "She said… there's nothing she can do."
Dante's head snapped toward her. "What do you mean nothing?"
Elira's lips trembled. "She said her wolf… is gone."
Silence. The words settled heavy, thick, unreal.
Dante slowly rose to his feet, staring down at Liora as if the air itself had betrayed him. "That's not possible," he murmured. "No one just loses their wolf. It doesn't happen."
