Five days. The number lived in my chest like a splinter, working itself deeper with each passing hour. I walked beside Amelia through the corridor that led from the war room to our bedroom, my hand at the small of her back, and tried not to count the hours. Ares hadn’t stopped growling in three days. Not the low, rumbling warning that meant danger was close, but something more constant than that, something that lived behind my sternum and refused to quiet no matter what I did. He paced the edges of my consciousness with his obsidian form pulled tight, circling the same territory over and over, and each time I reached for him through the bond he shoved the same image back at me: Amelia, still as marble on a medical bed, chest not moving, monitors screaming. Then, in the same breath, Amelia in that clearing, kneeling in the dirt beneath a blood moon with her eyes blank and her hands at her sides. ‘Stop it,’ I told him. He didn’t stop it. I looked at her from the corner of my eye,
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