Caleb didn't wake when Aria called his name.
He lay beneath the arching roots of the spirit-tree, pale and still, his chest rising in shallow breaths. The wound across his side—earned during their escape from the Hollowed Spire—had stopped bleeding, but something deeper had been disturbed. His wolf stirred faintly beneath his skin, a flickering presence Aria could barely feel anymore.
And that terrified her.
Aria sat beside him, pressing a damp cloth against his brow, watching for any sign of awareness. The Vowthorn lay in the grass nearby, wrapped in linen and bound by four layers of shielding runes. Even dormant, it hummed with dark potential.
"Elena's safe for now," Aria whispered, brushing sweat-matted hair from Caleb's forehead. "You did that. You brought us back."
