Zarek
The healers kept telling me to stay in bed.
Rest.
Recover.
Don’t move unless you want your stitches tearing open again.
Blah, blah, blah.
Did they really think I’d rot in this stupid ward while Atlas strutted around free, waiting for his chance to strike Zara? Not a chance.
I’d been bleeding out in her arms just days ago, and yeah, I was still a mess—half healed, my ribs aching like they were cracked with glass, stitches tugging every time I so much as breathed too hard. But lying there, helpless, wasn’t me.
And the more I thought about Atlas, the more the fire in me burned hotter. Zara had called him out, dragged his lies into the light in front of everyone. I was proud—hell, I couldn’t stop grinning when I heard she’d done it—but I also knew that meant Atlas’s mask was gone
