I’d left Silvermere in the dark, barefoot, bleeding, running for my life.

I came back in a ten-car convoy.

The vehicles were Valtherion’s idea, matte black SUVs and sedans, tinted windows, polished to a mirror shine.

Crimson Fang flags on the lead, rear vehicles.

The kind of motorcade that made border patrols radio ahead, highway traffic pull over.

Valtherion and I were in the third car, a black Mercedes with leather interior, a partition between us and the driver.

He sat beside me, one arm stretched along the back of my seat, perfectly relaxed.

Like we were heading to brunch, not into the territory of the pack that had destroyed...