After fleeing from Lord Rhaegal, Malin ran to the backyard, his breath ragged and uneven, chest rising and falling with each sharp inhale. The open sky above felt like the only space large enough to hold the chaos within him. He staggered to a halt, leaned against a tree trunk, and closed his eyes tightly, willing his racing heart to slow. The taste of fear lingered bitter on his tongue.
A long, shaky sigh escaped his lips, but relief never truly followed. His heart remained a humbled mess—disoriented, aching. He hadn't wanted to run from the lord. Every fiber of him longed to believe it had all been a terrible misunderstanding. But the moment he laid eyes on Rhaegal, his body betrayed him. It trembled. The haunting memory of the night before—those dead, emotionless eyes, that cold and suffocating gaze, the aura of death itself—wrapped itself around him like a choking fog.
