The Lycan King’s Broken Mate
The embers of the fire glowed faintly, like the heart’s final, slow beats, and the cool air filled with fresh scents: damp earth, bark, the fading trace of smoke, and something new—something promising.
I had already been awake, though my eyes were still closed. I listened to the camp. The quiet movements of my Lycans, taking down tents with practiced ease. The whisper of ropes, the faint clatter of harness on the packhorses. I gave no order—none was needed. They had done this a thousand times; their motions were as natural as breathing.
But the small stir beside me was something new. Something foreign—and yet, utterly at home. Nyra sat up slowly, clutching the blanket tightly around herself.