Lucien

The storm outside the fortress raged through the night.

Lucien had not slept. The memory of the mark he had seen on Rhea’s palm kept disturbing him. Black, faintly glowing, the same shape he had once seen scorched into the flesh of the dead at Blackridge.

He leaned against the stone wall of his chamber, arms crossed, staring into the dying fire. His wolf paced inside him, unsettled, restless, yet quieter than usual when her face drifted through his mind.

The ...