POV: Araya Varrow
Three days after Severan fell, I stood in the ruins of what had been my throne room and counted the dead.
Two hundred and forty-seven wolves. Sixty-three vampires who'd fought for us instead of against us. Jasper, whose body we'd burned with honor despite his betrayal. And Ronan.
Not dead. But close enough that the distinction felt meaningless.
"The healers say he has days." Millie's voice was steady, but I heard the tears beneath it. "Maybe a week if we're lucky. The damage is... Araya, there's nothing they can do. The hybrid power burned through him when he—when he pushed Selvara out of the way."
I closed my eyes, remembering. The moment during Lucian's explosion when a surge of energy had lashed out unpredictably. Selvara had been too close, would have been consumed. And Ronan, my mate, my Direwolf, had thrown himself between her and annihilation.
Had taken the full force of hybrid power directly to his chest.
