Dawlya’s Dragon
A thin swirl of violet-gold magic wound around Avi’s ankles like vines made of smoke.
Cain’s heart dropped. “Avi?” She didn’t turn. The Circle turned for her.
Her head tilted slightly not toward Cain, but as if listening to someone right beside her. Her breathing was shallow, eyes half unfocused. A whisper of words left her mouth, not her voice but layered, ancient, almost melodic: “The tether breaks. The Seventh rises. The Council stirs its blades.”
Cain moved instinctively, but Chance shot out a hand without looking at him. “Not yet,” he warned quietly.
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