The hospital wing fell into silence once more.
After Alaric had left with Adrianna, and the guards were dismissed to their patrols, Acantha remained at her sister's bedside, watching the slow rise and fall of Seraphina's chest. Monitors blinked softly beside her, charting vitals that—despite everything—had stabilized. Her breathing was even. Her heartbeat steady. But beneath that calm, Acantha could sense the storm still raging.
She brushed a stray lock of hair from Seraphina's brow.
"You came back to us," she whispered. "But you brought the weight of a battlefield with you."
Seraphina stirred, murmuring in her sleep, her wolf stirring just beneath the surface of her skin. Acantha placed a calming hand over her sister's arm. The wolf calmed.
Once she was certain her sister was asleep, Acantha stood, shoulders square, face once again carved into the cold resolve of command. There was no time for grief or sentiment. Not now.
She had a weapon to sharpen.
