My little fierce mate
His eyes were wet, his lips trembling with a thousand things he wanted to say and none that could save us.
Finally, he said, “You’re not her savior anymore, Liora. You’re the storm.”
Something in me flinched. But it was too late. The truth was already spilling from the air around us, from the trembling earth, from the whispers of my name threading through the dark.
The storm was already coming.
And I was its eye.
I turned from him, stepping toward the door that had not opened in centuries. My feet left faint trails of frost on the ground. The hum in my veins grew louder, deeper — as though every shadow was bending to listen.
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