Night fell like a velvet blade, sharp and suffocating. The abandoned fortress behind them was now a shadow of stone and memory, the flickering torches they'd lit casting long, hungry shapes across walls scarred with the weight of battles long forgotten. Elara and Draven walked together through the forest path, their steps synchronized as if instinctively aligned—not by bond, but by choice. Every brush of his fingers against hers sparked heat that had nothing to do with the moonlight, and everything to do with desire and danger intertwining.
"The council will never forgive this," Draven murmured, voice low, a growl hidden beneath calm tones. "They'll see Lena stabilized and think it's proof you're beyond control. They'll move against us—against you—faster than ever."
Elara's hand tightened around his. "Then let them come," she said. "I've survived worse."
"Survived, yes," he said, his gaze locking onto hers. "But now you're the symbol. And symbols bleed first."
