>>Draegon
There was a knock on the door.
Sharp. Urgent.
"Enter," I said, already sensing something wasn't right.
The door swung open, and in walked Drakkar and Ariston—both of them soaked through to the bone, clothes clinging to their frames, boots trailing rain and mud over the polished floor. But it wasn't the water that froze me.
It was the blood.
Ariston looked like he'd been in a bad fight. His clothes were a mess, his shoulder was slumped unnaturally, and bruises were blooming already along his jaw and temple. His face was pale—too pale—and streaked with rain and blood alike.
But what bothered me was what wasn't there.
I took one step forward, voice already taut.
"Where is Aelin?"
Drakkar raised his hands in a slow, calming gesture. "Draegon, listen—"
"Where. Is. She," I growled, louder this time, stepping toward Ariston, rage uncoiling like a beast from my chest. My heart was already hammering, breath shallow, hands curling into fists.
