By the time Ronan returned to the wolf clan estate, it was dark. Riven had fallen asleep somewhere along the trail back, his head gently resting against Ronan's chest, arms limp at his sides. He looked peaceful—far too peaceful for someone who had nearly walked into a battlefield just that morning.
Ronan dismounted carefully, mindful of the sleeping form in front of him. The guards at the estate opened the gates with lowered gazes, instantly sensing the weight of the moment. Ronan carried Riven in his arms like something sacred.
His steps were quiet, heavy with unspoken emotion, as he crossed the threshold of the estate and made his way upstairs, past servants who bowed with hushed reverence.
But the quiet didn't last.
An hour later, the door burst open without a knock.
Soren stood in the doorway, hair wind-tossed from his own journey back, eyes sharp. "He's here?" he asked coldly, even though the sight of Riven sleeping answered the question.
