The Lycan Prince’s Silent Bride
“Bring the healer.”
The command rolled across the hall, sharp and final. One of the guards bolted, returning moments later with a man dressed in pale robes, smelling of herbs and sharp iron. The healer fell to his knees beside the rogue, hands glowing faintly as he sealed the bleeding gashes. The rogue’s chest heaved, breaths evening out as strength slowly seeped back into his battered frame.
The room was silent except for the sound of healing and the occasional whimper of the rogue. My gaze flicked to Alaric again. His expression was cold, detached, as though this were routine, as though life and death were tools at his disposal.