Chapter Seventy-Three Irene’s POV The damp chill of the tunnels bit through my thin cloak, but I didn't stop. Zane’s signal—three low whistles near the servant’s entrance—had been my only lifeline. Behind me, the Great Hall echoed with the low, predatory rumble of Devon’s war council. He was planning another purge. He called it "pruning the dead weight." I called it murder. "You’re late," Zane hissed, pulling me into the shadows of the old grain silo. "Devon was watching me. He’s always watching," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Did you find him? The contact?" Zane nodded, stepping aside to reveal a withered man draped in rags. His eyes were milky with cataracts, but he moved with a strange, fluid grace. He had been a servant to the same witch who had hollowed Devon out. "The bond is a mirror, Little Alpha," the old man rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves on stone. "Right now, it is shattered. To fix it, you must be the one to gather the shards. You must
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