Draven Thorne returned to the Obsidian Citadel with blood still slowly soaking through his sleeve, his pace unhurried as he led Anastasia through the fortress's inner stone labyrinth.

Before they could even reach the grand stairwell, a sharp, urgent clicking of boots echoed against the obsidian floors.

"Your Majesty!"

Vallis, the Chief Royal Physician of the Valerian Empire, approached at a near run. His sharp eyes instantly locked onto the torn fabric and the heavy crimson stains tracking down Draven's forearm.

"You are injured, sire," Vallis said, his voice instantly dropping into a commanding medical register as he gestured to his accompanying attendants. "The royal clinic is prepared. We must immediately inspect the tissue for any unstable elemental rot—"

"Stand down, Vallis."

Draven didn't even break his stride. The command was low, quiet, and absolutely immovable.

Vallis froze, his face flushing with a mixture of offense and bewilderment as the Wolf King walked straight past him. The ancient physician's gaze flicked sharply to Anastasia, who followed closely behind, her fingers still stained with the residue of the forbidden forest. Vallis's jaw tightened, a severe, silent disapproval settling into his expressions, but he dared not breach the sovereign dead-line.

The doors to the private royal study slammed shut, locking the rest of the empire out.

The room smelled of old leather, heavy pine hearth-smoke, and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood. Draven walked directly to the center of the room, unbuttoning his dark training tunic with steady, unbothered movements. He peeled the ruined fabric away from his torso, casting it onto a leather chair before sitting down beneath the low, amber glow of the chandelier.

He looked up at Anastasia. "The medical kit is in the cabinet to your left."

Anastasia's chest tightened as she retrieved the dark wooden case. When she turned back, her breath caught sharply in her throat.

Draven sat completely bare-chested before her, his massive, heavily muscled shoulders outlined in gold by the firelight.

Traced across his upper arm and forearm were the deep, vicious lacerations her uncontrolled claws had carved into his flesh. The skin was split clean, fresh crimson blood welling from the tracks and tracing slowly down his skin.

Traced across his upper arm, the skin was split clean, fresh crimson blood welling from the tracks and tracing slowly down his skin.

Anastasia approached him slowly, her knees still slightly weak from the forest aftershocks. She set the tools on the small side table, her fingers inevitably trembling as she threaded a silver surgical needle with thick, sterilized silk thread.

She had healed hundreds of warriors in Black Hollow. She had sewn flesh together under torches while battles raged outside.

But this was different. The man sitting perfectly still before her was a conqueror who could level cities with a command.

Now, he sat back, his arms resting openly on the leather guards, completely exposing his raw, bleeding flesh to her blades and needles.

As she brought the silver needle down toward his skin, her breath hitched.

Pierce.

The silver needle bit into the tough, dense tissue of his upper arm.

Draven's massive frame went completely rigid, the heavy muscle underneath his skin locking tight as a stone slab under the physical intrusion. Yet, he didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. Not a single muscle in his jaw moved, and his dark brows didn't even twitch as the silver wire pulled the split skin together.

His silver-blue eyes were locked entirely on her face.

He watched the sheer, hyper-focused intensity in her frightened gray eyes. He watched the way her lower lip—still bearing the faint mark of her own blood from midnight—was pulled tight between her teeth. 

Miles to the east, across the trap-riddled dead zones, Kaelen Varros sat in a dark tent, his face twisted into something monstrous.

----

The vanguard he had driven into the mountains was ruined, but he hadn't stopped. He had used the last of his personal wealth to buy off a network of lawless, wandering rogue wolves who operated within the border cracks—eyes and ears that slinked through the shadows of the western outer territories.

A ragged rogue scout knelt before him in the mud. "The girl... she is inside the Western Empire's capital, Eboncrest. She was taken directly through the royal gates into the palace grounds."

Kaelen's fist slammed into the camp table, a guttural growl vibrating through his throat. "With Draven?"

"Yes," the scout whispered, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "And the palace is whispering. The Wolf King returned from the forbidden ridge with his blood on the snow. He is severely injured, sire. His guard lines inside the capital are shifting to cover his weakness."

The rogue's report was fundamentally flawed—but to Kaelen's frantic, jealousy-poisoned mind, it sounded like an invitation.

A wild, manic smile broke across Kaelen's pale face. His pride swelled through the madness.

Draven Thorne is hurt. The Western Empire is vulnerable.

Kaelen's grip tightened on his map, his mind completely blind to the fact that he was mapping his own execution. "Prepare the remaining vanguards," he snarled. "We strike the western passes before dawn."

----

Back in the quiet sanctuary of the royal study, Anastasia took a pair of small silver shears and cleanly snipped the final knot of the silk thread.

She dipped her fingertips into a jar of thick, emerald-green medicinal herb paste.

The silver stitches were perfectly aligned, holding his torn skin together in clean, precise lines. She pressed her fingers gently against the warm, solid curve of his shoulder, spreading the soothing balm over the raw wounds to lock out the rot.

Her touch was inevitably light.

The tension in the room remained wound tight, the firelight catching the dark, emerald tracks crossing his pale skin. She leaned back a fraction, her hands dropping to her sides as she let out a long, trembling breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Draven did not rise immediately.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his motion slow and unhurried as his dark hair shadowed his face. He shifted his weight, his broad chest moving closer until his low, deep baritone voice brushed directly across the delicate curve of her earlobe, sending a violent shiver straight down her spine.

"Your hand," Draven murmured, his white-blue eyes locked onto hers with a terrifyingly sincere intensity, "is very steady."