Logan's POV
"Aye," Magnar replies gravely, his voice dropping to a rumble. "The Carver is after your head, Young Whittaker."
The silence that follows is different from the ones before. It's colder. Sharper. Like the room itself is holding its breath.
Anyone who's only ever heard of The Carver might assume they're hearing an urban legend. Some exaggerated cautionary tale, spun from the nightmare of a child afraid of the dark. The kind of story told to unruly pups to keep them from sneaking out at night.
But she's not a story.
She's real.
Alpha Kestrel Valkyr of Selvorum: A walking, breathing open wound. The right side of her face is a web of scar tissue—keloids from silver burns that never healed smooth. Her arms? Crosshatched with old silverwire marks and healed gouges, from a childhood spent mostly bound and left to rot in darkness until she was needed.
She wears sleeveless tunics in winter. Not because the cold doesn't bite, but because fear is her uniform.
