The forest was too quiet.
Not a birdcall.
Not a breeze.
Only Elara's heartbeat pounding in her ears as she stalked through the snow-crusted undergrowth, the bone ring swinging from her neck like a cursed compass.
Behind her, her sister panted softly, keeping up without complaint—though her boots slipped more than once, and her eyes kept flicking to the shadows.
"Are you sure about this?" she asked.
"No."
"But you're going anyway?"
"Yes."
That was enough.
They found the blood trail before they found the trap.
A silver snare glinting faintly beneath a fallen log—meant for Lycan ankles, sharpened with runic edges and blessed salt.
Elara froze.
But it was too late.
TWANG.
A snap of tension.
A whistle.
And then—a scream.
Her sister collapsed, hands clutching her thigh.
An arrow.
Not through bone—but close.
"Stay down!" Elara cried, crouching beside her.
Then another arrow whistled past her ear.
And another.
Someone was hunting them.
Not wolves.
Not beasts.
But men.
Silver-wielding. Trained.
Argent Order survivors.
The ring on Elara's neck pulsed hard, hot enough to burn.
Kael was close.
But she couldn't leave her sister.
"Go," her sister gasped through gritted teeth. "I can crawl."
"No."
"Elara, if you die here, he dies alone."
Elara's hands shook as she drew her dagger.
Another whistle.
Another arrow—
—but it never landed.
Instead, the trees howled.
Leaves exploded outward.
And from the fog—
Kael emerged.
Blood soaked through the torn fabric of his coat, and two silver arrows jutted from his back, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—still burned like molten gold.
"Elara," he snarled.
And then he moved.
Fast.
Too fast for the hunters to react.
His claws shredded through brush and bone alike. Screams rang through the forest, and metal clanged off stone as blades met fur and lost.
One hunter lunged toward Elara.
Kael tackled him mid-air, snapping his neck with a twist of his hands.
He spun, crouched low.
"Elara—run!"
"I can't leave her!"
Kael turned to the snare. One swipe. It broke.
Elara grabbed her sister, dragging her to her feet.
But Kael staggered.
His breath hitched.
His knees buckled.
"Elara," he gasped, blood gurgling in his throat.
She ran to him, catching him as he fell.
The arrows in his back had sunk deeper. One had pierced just beneath the scapula.
He was still half-shifted. Still glowing.
But fading.
Fast.
She pressed her hand to his chest.
The bone ring throbbed between them.
"I found you," she whispered.
Kael opened his eyes.
Barely.
And smiled.
"Of course you did."
They hid in a ruined stone tower deeper in the woods, long abandoned by the Order.
Kael collapsed inside, too weak to argue.
Elara built a fire from rotten boards.
She cleaned his wounds with snow and spit and stripped linen. Her hands never stopped moving. Because if they stopped—she would.
And if she stopped—
She'd fall apart.
"You're hurt," he rasped, watching her bandage the arrow wounds.
"So are you," she snapped.
He reached out—clumsily, blindly—and caught her wrist.
"Elara."
She looked at him.
And something broke.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
Hot.
Unexpected.
Silent.
Kael stared at it like it was a miracle.
He reached up, thumb brushing the trail it left behind.
And then—he leaned in.
And licked it away.
Elara froze.
His lips hovered just beneath her eye, soft and reverent.
And then he whispered:
"You cried."
She said nothing.
"You cried for me."
Her mouth opened.
But no words came.
Instead, she collapsed forward, hands gripping his blood-stained shirt, face buried in his neck.
"I thought you were dead," she whispered.
"I was close."
"I felt you vanish."
"You brought me back."
She shook against him, tears falling faster now.
Kael didn't speak.
Didn't tease.
He just held her.
Arms around her waist.
Forehead against hers.
Breath shared.
Later, when the fire died low, Elara curled against him in the ashes, too tired to weep again.
Kael watched the sky through the broken roof, stars barely visible through cloud.
"Elara?"
"Mm?"
"I don't deserve your tears."
"You don't," she said.
"But I gave them anyway."
He exhaled—slow. Unsteady.
"Why?"
She tilted her head up, met his gaze.
And said, "Because you make me feel like fire isn't the worst thing I've survived."
Outside, snow began to fall.
Inside, they slept—blood, ash, and salt bonding them tighter than any vow.