The night deepened after the kiss.
Not softer.
Sharper.
The river's widened current moved slowly beneath the fractured crossing, reflecting streaks of moonlight like scattered silver blades. The air had cooled, but Elara's pulse still ran hot beneath her skin.
Draven had not stepped away.
His hand remained loosely wrapped around hers, fingers laced with quiet certainty rather than claim. The difference was small in gesture—but enormous in meaning.
No bond pulled them together now.
No instinct demanded it.
This was choice.
And choice, Elara was beginning to realize, burned far more dangerously than destiny.
"You felt it too," she said softly, still watching the horizon where distant lightning flickered beyond the mountains.
Draven nodded.
"The awakening."
"Yes."
His grip tightened slightly—not possessive, but protective in the way someone steadies themselves before a storm.
