The dawn had arrived not with a roar, but with a bruised, golden silence that draped over the Sun-Seeker temple. Outside, the soldiers were packing the remaining crates, their breath still hitching in the lingering sub-zero mist Vera had left behind. Damon stood ten paces from the Imperial Caravan, his back turned, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword with a grip that turned his knuckles white. He had given the order: no one approaches the Emperor's carriage.
Inside the fortress of wood and iron, the world had shrunk to the size of a velvet-lined bed.
Kassian didn't just approach Vera; he haunted her space. He moved with a heavy, predatory grace that betrayed his exhaustion, his bare chest still radiating the residual heat of the Berserk cycle. He cornered her against the frosted velvet of the seat, his shadow eclipsing the dim morning light.
