Elowen’s POV
Later that evening the sky was a breathtaking canvas, painted in the soft, fading hues of lavender bleeding into rich gold as the quiet hush of dusk gently draped itself over the sprawling academy grounds. The usual cacophony of training—the sharp clangs of metal colliding, the echoing shouts of students pushing their limits—had long since faded into the peaceful silence of twilight, leaving a serene stillness in its wake.
I sat on a small, surprisingly soft patch of grass near the edge of the main sparring field, my knees drawn up to my chest, my fingers absently plucking at a stray blade of grass, its delicate texture a small distraction from the swirling thoughts in my head. I wore one of Ranon’s sweatshirts, a familiar comfort—oversized, incredibly warm, and carrying his unique, intoxicating scent, a blend of spice and something wild. The cool evening breeze whispered across the open field, sending a slight shiver through the exposed skin of my neck, but it wasn’t
