The Citadel did not celebrate.
It exhaled.
That was the only way to describe the strange quiet that settled over the fortress once the fissure stilled. No cheers rose from the courtyard. No victorious cries echoed from the towers.
Just breath.
Long. Uneven. Collective.
Wolves who had faced war without flinching now stood motionless, as if afraid movement might disturb whatever fragile equilibrium had just been forged beneath their feet.
Aria remained in Damien's arms longer than she meant to.
Not because she was weak.
Because she was listening.
Not with her ears.
With everything else.
The mark around her wrist pulsed faintly, not with pain, not with power, but with awareness. A quiet echo beneath her skin, like a second heartbeat that did not belong solely to her.
She drew in a slow breath and straightened.
"I'm alright," she murmured.
Damien didn't let go immediately.
His hand remained firm at her back, his thumb brushing once, grounding, checking.
