The last thing Elara heard before the gates closed behind her was not a command.
Not a threat.
Not even Draven's voice.
It was the sound of the bond tearing,
the kind that follows a scream too large for air to carry. She had stood in the war hall, the mastermind's name finally exposed, lineage unraveling like a rot threaded through every Alpha house. Truth had fractured alliances. Elara had done what none of them believed she would dare.
She severed part of the bond.
Not all.
Just enough to stop being their anchor.
Just enough to stop being their prize.
The pain had dropped her to her knees.
Draven had reached for her.
Malrik had not.
That had been the difference.
And then she chose exile.
Now the road stretched before her like an open wound.
The sky was iron-gray, dawn threatening but not yet merciful. She had crossed the last territorial marker hours ago—stone etched with sigils of dominance and claim. The moment she stepped beyond it, the world felt different.
