The whisper didn't fade.
It crawled along the walls like a living thing—thin, ancient, and hungry. Eira stiffened in Rowan's arms, her breath catching as though the very sound siphoned the air from her lungs.
Rowan lifted his head, golden eyes narrowing.
"Show yourself," he growled.
The shadows didn't obey. They never obeyed.
They slithered instead—up the cracked stone, across the ceiling, pouring into the room like black smoke seeking new flesh.
Eira reached for Rowan's forearm instinctively. "Don't—"
But Rowan was already stepping in front of her, one hand raised, power simmering under his skin like molten metal ready to spill.
"You want a vessel?" His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "Try me."
The shadows pulsed.
No.
The refusal wasn't a word but a sensation—icy, smug, threaded with certainty.
Eira felt it before Rowan did.
Her knees buckled.
He caught her instantly, one arm around her waist. "Eira—look at me."
She tried. She couldn't.
