The forest roared with war.
Wolves collided in a blur of claws and fury, snarls tearing through the storm-thick air, every strike shaking the ground beneath Elena's feet. Lightning carved the sky open again, throwing the battlefield into violent flashes—gold and black, blood and teeth, Rafael's blazing silhouette ripping through the chaos like a fallen star fighting his way back to the heavens.
But Elena's pulse hammered for another reason.
Varyn was no longer looking at the battle.
He was looking at her.
His smile was a slow, deliberate carve of cruelty, as though he were savoring the moment he'd been waiting centuries for.
Lyra tightened her stance in front of Elena, blades drawn, her eyes glowing with that eerie moonlit silver. "If he moves toward you," Lyra murmured, "run. Even I can't—"
"He wants me," Elena whispered. "Running won't help."
"It will keep you alive."
"No," Elena said, voice trembling but solid. "It won't."
Because Varyn wasn't hunting with his pack.
