Elara POV
The chamber was dim and wrong. Silence hung heavy, the kind that comes after something breaks and can't be put back the same. Pale dawn slipped through the narrow window, tracing faint lines across the floor where last night's circle had been drawn. The air still smelled of burnt metal, old smoke, and something colder underneath.
I wasn't in Theron's chamber anymore. This room was smaller, stripped bare, meant for recovery or punishment—I wasn't sure which. The cot beneath me was rough wool, and my palms… my palms ached like open wounds. The thirteenth mark still glowed beneath the skin, faint silver trembling like frost that refused to melt.
I sat up slowly. Every muscle protested. The ache wasn't only physical. Through the bond, Kaelen's silence pressed against me—dense, aware, hurting. He wasn't calling. He wasn't accusing. He was just there, and that quietness felt worse than anger. Like a door I wasn't allowed to open anymore.
