The battlefield is quiet now—eerily quiet.
Aria stands alone atop a hill, silver energy still radiating faintly from her body.
Her wolf paces within, restless, alert, sensing danger beyond the defeated enemy lines.
From the shadows, a presence approaches—silent, cold, impossible to ignore.
Malrik.
He steps into the silver glow, unafraid, calm, and precise.
No soldiers. No entourage. Just him.
Aria stiffens.
“You…” she breathes, her voice low, wary.
“I need not fight you here,” Malrik says softly, almost conversationally.
“Not yet.”
Aria’s wolf snarls inside her, a low, vibrating growl that echoes in her chest.
“I want to speak,” he continues.
“I want you to understand.”
Her claws flex.
“Explain,” she snaps.
Malrik smiles, thin and chilling.
“You misunderstand me, Queen,” h
