The wind sweeping across the jagged ridges of Vael'ethor was changing. The sulfurous reek that had choked the valley for days began to thin, replaced by the crisp, biting chill of the high mountain passes. Yet, despite the cold, the heat beneath my skin remained—a steady, golden pulse that vibrated in exact rhythm with the man beside me.
Draven's hand stayed locked around mine, his calloused fingers intertwined with mine so tightly our knuckles were pale. The obsidian scales had vanished entirely from his arms, leaving his skin smooth save for the fresh, jagged scars of battle, but the lingering residue of the Southern core burned brightly behind his ribs. Every breath he drew echoed inside my own mind; every subtle shift in his mood rippled through the invisible tether now binding our souls together.
