Kieran’s POV

I am packed. That is the problem.

My weapons are cleaned, wrapped, and laid out with the kind of care that comes from habit rather than intention. My clothes are folded. My boots sit by the door, freshly oiled, waiting. Everything about this room says departure.

Everything except my instincts. They are screaming. Not the sharp, immediate warning of danger—the kind that sends your hand to your blade before your mind catches up—but something deeper. Older. A low, relentless ...