That night, Darius went to Damien’s quarters.

The guards outside barely announced him before the door opened. Damien was already awake. He had been awake for hours. The room smelled faintly of cold tea and old paper. A single lamp burned low on the table, throwing long shadows on the walls.

Damien sat alone, elbows on the table, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. The cup of tea beside him had gone untouched. His eyes were red, not from tears, but from lack of sleep. His wolf paced ...