The Thornwick stronghold loomed ahead, its spire of bone and shadow rising from the clearing like something that had clawed its way out of a nightmare.
The pulsing veins of red light stitched through its surface, a grotesque parody of veins beneath skin.
Samantha's breath caught. Even the air hummed with the metallic tang of blood magic, every inhale leaving a faint sting in her throat.
She forced her gaze away before Maelith could whisper another invitation.
Her hand drifted to the ring, its pulse a steady counterpoint to the fortress's pull. The glamour cloaked her form, smothering her presence like a veil.
She hated how much relief it gave her.
Marcus noticed. Of course he did.
His hand brushed hers, a fleeting touch, rough and warm, just enough to anchor her. His gaze, dark as the stronghold itself, flicked toward her in silent reassurance.
"You're trembling," he murmured low.
"Not fear," she lied.
Marcus's lips quirked, but he let it go.
Callum, however, didn't.
