The sound of Marek's arrival was not a knock; it was a sonic boom.
I was standing by the window of the Master Suite, wrapped in a heavy silk robe, watching the horizon. The storm had passed, but the air remained charged with a static tension that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. Kaelen was behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders—a grounding, heavy presence that kept me from drifting into the clinical dissociation I usually sought after a trauma.
Then, the floor shook. A low, rhythmic thrumming began to vibrate through the obsidian foundations of the mansion. It was the sound of a heavy-lift tactical jet VTOLing onto the private landing pad, its engines screaming with a Baltic fury.
"He's here," Kaelen whispered, his voice a dark, jagged edge. His fingers tightened on my shoulders, his nails grazing the silk. "Stay here, Seraphina. Let me handle the beast."
