The Warlords had left, carrying their sleeping cubs home. The war council was adjourned, but the tension lingered in the air like ozone before a storm.
In my small apartment, the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the clock and Orion's soft snoring from the bedroom.
I was sitting on the rug in the living room, a first-aid kit open beside me. Caspian sat on the sofa, shirtless, while I applied a fresh layer of my glowing blue herb paste to his shoulder.
The corruption looked angry tonight. The grey veins had spread just a fraction of an inch further down his chest, branching out like frost on a windowpane.
"It's moving," I whispered, my fingers gentle as I smoothed the paste over his cold skin. "Just a little, but it's moving."
Caspian didn't look at the wound. He looked at me. His teal eyes were calm, almost too calm.
"It is reacting to the ambient mana," he said softly. "Or perhaps to the stress of your world. The Surface is... loud."
