Thalos didn't spare the hellhound a second glance. He simply chuckled, tucked his hands into his coat pockets, and walked forward with the slow, unhurried confidence.
The hellhound continued to growl, low and warning, every muscle tensed like a drawn bowstring. But Thalos walked forward anyway, unbothered, until he reached the foot of the raised platform where Sylva lay unconscious on the bed.
He stopped there.
His eyes swept over her, pale against the black sheets, one arm draped over her midsection where the glowing seal had disappeared into her skin. Her breathing was steady now, slower than before, the rise and fall of her chest almost imperceptible. But alive.
Very much alive.
Something deep in his chest stirred again—not affection, certainly not concern. No, it was that maddening pull. That persistent question.
What are you?
What power do you carry?
Why did Silva Metuenda—a forest of blood and nightmare, feared even among kings—choose to protect her?
